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PLAYS  AND  POEMS 


BY 


DON  MARK  LEMON. 


SAN  FRANCISCO: 

LOUIS  ROESCH  CO.,  PRINTERS, 

1899. 


COPYRIGHTED  1899 

BY 
DON   MARK   LEMON. 


IJGUjat  {0 


wtthuttt  yvintev'a  ink? 


393822 


PREFACE. 


M 

HE  work  of  a  young  man  of  one-and-twenty 
— indeed,  HARRIET  KKNYON  was  written 
when  I  was  barely  twenty — I  cannot  hope 
that  these  PLAYS  AND  POEMS  will  great- 
ly please  or  widely  interest.  However,  I 
believe,  the  catholic  reader  will  find  the  volume  of  such 
merit  as  will  repay  perusal. 

No  doubt  the  critical  will  censure  me,  and  rightly, 
for  the  lax  metre  of  certain  parts  of  the  PLAYS,  yet 
I  purposely  (though  I  now  believe,  unwisely)  wrote  the 
PL  AYS  as  they  are  published,  and  must  be  censured 
rather  for  perverted  judgment  than  for  any  great  lack  of 
metrical  skill.  While  either  is  to  be  condemned,  the 
former  may  be  corrected,  but  the  latter,  hardly. 

The  poem  to  the  Flag  is  fashioned  after  Shelley's 
1  'SKYLARK.  " 

D.  M.  I,. 


;M: 


o  o  o 


COLUMBIAN  ODE. 


Lo!  within  the  West, 

Like  a  sun  ye  burn, 
In  a  splendor  drest 

That  the  blind  discern. 
The  Fearful  never  were  thy  prophets,  Columbia  eterne. 

Peace  found  thee  among 

States  of  Liberty; 
War  has  left  thee  sung 
By  the  guiltless  free; 

And  triumph  calls  to  triumph  through  all  thy  harps  of 

[  melody. 

Thou  art  free  and  strong, 

And  the  Light  is  thine: 
God  has  known  thee  long; 

Man  shall  know  thy  shrine: 
And  where  thy  spirit  is  there  is  a  better  way  divine. 


Thou 're  a  prophecy 

Unto  the  belated; 
Hymning  Liberty 

To  the  subjugated 
Until  the  vasty  deserts  blossom  for  the  Liberated. 

On  thy  front  sublime — 

While  the  spheres  are  pealing 
Down  the  sweep  of  time — 

Like  the  dawn  revealing, 

Now  flames  that  leavening  light  which  through  the  ages 

[  has  been  stealing. 

On  the  sacred  shrine 
Of  thy  sovereignty, 
Fall  that  light  divine, 
Which  may  ever  be, 

That  beats  not  on  the  throne  but  on  the  altars  of  Democ- 

[racy. 

Man's  last  work  art  thou, 
Shaping  to  God's  thought: 

While  the  heavens  bow, 

Thou' 11  not  come  to  naught, 
For  thou  art  builded  of  a  prayer  and  wonderfully  wrought. 

II 

Ye  will  teach  the  bound, 

By  thy  history, 
How  the  way  is  found 

Out  of  tyranny, 
Until  their  spirit  is  made  one  with  the  Spirit  of  Liberty. 


(Hark!  the  winds  that  rock 

Bring  across  the  deep 
Sound  of  Freedom's  shock, 

And  the  splendors  leap 

From  fields  where  burning  Patriots  sow  to  fields  where  a 

[People  reap.) 

Ye  will  ever  cherish 

Thy  pure  liberty, 
That  it  shall  not  perish 

From  Man's  history; 
Still  as  a  prophet  free — and  go  forth  freeing  and  to  free. 

Ye '11  teach  us  to  know 
Peace  the  noblest  art; 
Yet,  against  thy  foe, 

None  will  stand  apart, 

With   days   and  nights   untroubled   with   the   Nation's 

[troubled  heart. 

Ye  will  weigh  the  Dead, 

And  the  Unborn  weigh  ; 
Hold  the  glory  fled 

lyess  than  morning  gray; 

Nor  will  thy  Thinkers  hold  the  dawn  shall  stand  against 

[  the  day. 

Ye' 11  press  on  the  dawn, 
In  the  vanguard  still; 
Nor  put  good  in  pawn 

'Gainst  the  fear  of  ill; 
And  when  Truth's  lightning  beckons  ye' 11  respond  from 

[every  hill. 
13 


(Still  a  glory  swims 

In  the  prophet's  ken 
With  a  light  that  dims 

That  which  is  on  men: 
Empires  and  Persuasions  end,  but  God-like  truths  begin.) 

Ye  will  shield  the  right 

As  ye  did  in  youth: 
Ye  will  love  the  light, 

And  will  meet  the  truth: 

Nor  will  ye  raven  down  the  darkness  with  the  bigot's 

[tooth. 

Ye  will  look  before: 

Ye  will  look  ahead: 
Ye  will  weigh  all  lore, 
All  the  Masters  said: 
Nor  will  thy  Thinkers  give  a  living  issue  to  the  Dead. 

Ye  will  bruise  the  chain 

Hedging  Spirit  in, — 
Want  and  human  pain, 

Tyranny  and  sin — 
Until  the  grave  shall  lie  beyond  the  work  that  is  within. 

Know  thy  daughters  are 

Mothers  of  the  Free; 
Woman  still  thy  star 

And  thy  destiny; 
And  as  her  brow  is  wide  or  cramped  so  Heaven's  face 

[shall  be. 
14 


Ye  will  cherish  Art: 

Music  ye' 11  esteem: 
Beauty  and  its  part, 

Ye  will  not  misdeem; 

But  give  thy  youth  to  Spirit  and  bring  forth  the  sacred 

[dream. 

Ye  will  greet  the  Bard, 

That  he  hymn  the  State, 
Or  on  pleasant  sward 

Pipe  with  heart  elate, 
Or  trumpet  through  a  clarion  pen  the  roll-call  of  thy  Great. 

(Still  Posterity 

Sees  through  Poets'  eyes: 

Half  of  history 

In  the  Poet  dies: 
Events  pass  by  but  music  lingers,  and  a  song  is  wise.) 

Ill 

Glory  shall  be  thine 

Stooping  to  the  low; 
Glory  as  divine 

As  from  truth  doth  flow; 

The  glory  that  has  found  thee  free  and  that  shall  keep 

[thee  so. 

Empire  shall  be  thine, 

Empire  to  redeem; 
That  pure  rule  divine 

That  shall  still  beseem 
The  star  of  Empire  hung  aloft  an  Emancipator's  dream. 

15 


Law  shall  spring  of  thee; 

Law  that  educates, 
Law  that  's  prophecy 

Of  the  self-mandates: 
Till  honor  through  the  law  's  the  crowning  glory  of  thy 

[States. 
Love  shall  brood  o'er  thee 

And  all  discord  quell, 
Pouring  charity, 

From  a  living  well, 
Upon  the  mountains  and  savannas  where  the  Unfettered 

[dwell. 

Thine  shall  be  the  faith- 
Light  and  Liberty; 
And  all  thy  Spirit  saith 

Shall  shine  outwardly, 

Till  dawns  that  day  when  men  fulfill  themselves  fulfilling 
.  [thee. 

MY  COUNTRY. 


O,  my  Country, 

Art  thou  strong  ? 
Then  I  have  need  of  thee  : 

O,  my  Country, 

Art  thou  weak  ? 
Then  thou  hast  need  of  me. 

Be  my  worship 

And  my  work, 
And  thee  I'll  chief  adore ; 

Not  that  I  love 

The  nations  less 
But  love  my  Country  more. 

16 


"OLD  GLORY." 


Hail  to  thee,  "  Old  Glory"  ! 

Yet  banner  never  waved 
Like  to  thee  in  story, 

Nor  never  freemen  saved 
A  nobler  standard  with  the  blood  of  heroes  laved. 

In  the  light  of  Mars, 

The  foemen's  flag  thou  nearest; 

Towering  with  thy  stars, 
Still  thou  over-peerest, 
And  cheering  still  advance  and  advancing  ever  cheerest. 

In  the  vanguard's  brightening 

Where  Victory  commands, 
Stormed  by  shell  and  lightning, 

Thou  clap  thy  mighty  hands, 
Like  to  a  winged  captain  whom  no  foe  withstands. 

The  battle's  rolling  blast 

Hides  thy  triplicity; 
Like  the  sun  o'ercast 

Above  a  stormy  sea 
Thou  art  unseen,  yet  I  see  where  heroes  die  for  thee. 

17 


Again  the  battle  rack 

With  thy  seven  bars  is  bright, 

As,  when  storm  is  black, 
Upon  the  fearful  night 
The  crooked  lightning  breaks  and  heaven  melts  with  light. 

Where  thou'll  wave  we  dream  not; 
What  flag  has  waved  like  thee  ? 
O'er  the  seas  there  stream  not 

Such  lights  to  Liberty 
As  from  thy  stars  descend  in  burning  prophecy. 

Like  the  battle  steed, 

With  neck  clothed  in  thunder, 

Pawing  at  th'  mighty  lead 

And  swallowing  th'  ground  under; 
Rejoicing  to  lead   a  People  slavery's  chains  to  sunder. 

Like  an  eagle  riding 

Upon  the  whirlwind  blast, 
In  its  strength  abiding 

Until  the  stoim  is  past, 
And  on  the  crags  the  thunder-bolts  are  chained  at  last. 

Like  the  morning  star, 

Aloft  a  promised  land, 
Streaming  from  afar 

Upon  some  earnest  band, 
And  bringing  with  it  airs  by  Freedom's  hymn  thrice  fanned. 

18 


the  sun  at  zenith 
First  seen  by  him  born  blind, 
Grasping  all  it  meaneth 
Unto  a  soul  confined 
A  lifetime  from  the  common  light  of  human  kind. 


organs  making 
New  music  in  the  hills, 
Melodies  awakening 

Beneath  harmonious  quills, 
The  wind  against  thy  folds  aerial  out-thrills. 

Teach  us,  glorious  birth, 
The  light  which  is  on  thee: 

Nor  upon  the  earth, 

Nor  yet  within  the  sea, 
Is  else  such  living  light  and  pure  intensity. 

The  refulgent  sun, 

Or  evening's  silver  car, 
'Gainst  thy  unfurled  legion, 

Like  empty  glories  are; 
A  splendor  fit  to  move  before  a  slave  afar. 

What  fire  is  the  fountain 

Of  thy  prophetic  light  ? 
What  star  upon  the  mountain  ? 

What  morrow  in  midnight  ? 
What  secret  writing  in  the  face  of  heaven  bright  ? 

19 


In  thy  awful  glory 

A  bondman  cannot  be: 
Ye  have  slaves  in  story, 

But  not  in  prophecy: 
The  fathers  ye  enslaved  have  shrouded  sons  in  thee. 

Floating  free  or  furled, 

In  peace  or  fearful  war, 
What  promise  for  the  world 

Still  prophecy  thou  afar 
In  that  high  audience  illustrious  of  the  morning  star? 

In  the  lit  serene, 

Seen  at  that  starry  height, 
Still  thy  memories  glean 

Fraternity  from  might, 
That  when  the  inspired  prophet  bodes  he  bodes  of  light. 

Emblem  of  the  brave, 

Hung  be  the  heavens  with  thee; 

While  the  hills  concave 

Bruit  chants  to  Liberty — 
Our  mightiest  songs  are  those  that  hymn  the  Nation's  free. 

Wave,  forever  wave, 

Within  the  Master's  sight, 
While  the  free  and  brave 

Hymn  "  God  and  Equal  Right/' 
And  take  those  words  like  suns  and  live  within  their  light. 


SONNET. 


Dishonored  may  he  stand  who  shall  delay 
In  his  oppressed  or  tyrant-troubled  land; 
Who  shall  not,  in  her  bondage,  raise  a  hand 

To  strike  her  chains  incarnadine  away. 

And  thrice  dishonored  he  who  shall  betray 
His  land's  election  to  a  venal  band, 
Or  light  in  peace  foul  Discord's  ready  brand, 

Flaming  the  State  to  war  for  Caesar's  pay. 

Our  Country's  call  is  also  Heaven's  call, 
When  tyrants  have  abused  her  sacred  right: 

Her  free  election  is  the  armature 

Which  God  has  given  man  against  the  might 

And  violence  of  that  old  feudal  thrall: 

Her  peace  is  Heaven's  peace  when  she  is  pure. 


LIBERTY. 


Republics  do  not  freemen  make, 

Nor  Despotisms  slaves  ; 
For  they  alone  are  free  that  forsake 

The  license  which  betrays. 

But  they  who  do  subdue  are  free 
The  wildness  of  their  will ; 

But  he  is  the  son  of  Liberty 
That  's  Virtue's  bondman  still. 

Yea,  from  within  is  liberty  ! 

The  which  outlives  the  grave. 
Thus  Despotisms  have  their  free, 

Republics  have  their  slave. 

21 


ODE  TO  ADMIRAL  DEWEY, 


O  let  his  song  be  sung  again, 

His  glorious  song  of  victory  ; 
Sweetest  in  the  ears  of  free-born  men, 

And  all  compact  of  liberty  : 
O  sing  it  o'er,  ye  Muse,  and  sing  it  loftier  for  the  Free. 


Say  how  our  Chieftain  met  the  Foe, 

Leading  his  brave,  determined  men  ; 
And  how  he  dealt  the  open  blow 

Against  the  Spaniard  there  and  then  ; 
And  how  he  struck  once  for  the  sunken  Maine  nor  struck 

[again. 

Say  how  he  met  the  Spanish  host, 

There  where  a  blow  'gainst  tyranny 
(Along  that  tyrant-governed  coast) 

Was  twice  a  blow  for  liberty, 

Dealt  in  that  just  and  perfect  cause  that  its  own  prayer 

[could  be. 


The  Enemy  comes  on,  and  lo  ! 

Down  from  Olympia's  conscious  gun, 
A  cloud  of  fire  leaps  on  that  Foe, 

That  lifting,  when  the  field  is  won, 

Reveals  a  new  and  western  nation  lighted  by  Freedom's 

[sun. 

The  Enemy  comes  on — to  sink, 

Or  charge  but  once — and  charge  to  fly  : 
He  hangs  on  deep  destruction's  brink 

And  strikes  at  Freedom's  star — to  die  ; 
While  Freedom's  star,  now  large  as  a  sun,  flames  in  the 

[morning  sky. 

The  Foe  strikes  once  for  tyranny, 

To  falter  then  and  bow  him  low  ; 
Our  Chief  strikes  thrice  for  liberty, 

Gathering  strength  from  blow  to  blow  ; 
And  from  his  Flag-ship's    bridge   he  looks  the  last  on 

[Freedom's  Foe. 

Above  her  groans  he  hears  the  sorrow 

Of  Spain's  ten  million  slaves  that  bleed  : 
He  lays  his  ear  unto  the  morrow 

And  hears  the  music  of  his  deed, 

Hears  that  deep  burst  triumphal  and  exalted  chant  of 

[the  Freed. 

So  falls  the  Foe  for  sins  of  State  ; 

His  race  is  closed,  Freedom's  begun. 
Making  a  way  for  equal  fate, 

Spain's  mad  and  losing  race  is  run 
Even    along    that    shore    she    galled,    while   sinks   the 

[darkened  sun. 
23 


And  now  the  victorious  battle  's  o'er  ; 

Heaven  takes  on  its  pristine  blue, 
The  waves,  untroubled,  flood  the  shore, 

The  airs  their  purity  renew  ; 
The  splendid  deed  is  done  that  no  American  would  undo. 

Then  hail !  all  hail  our  Chieftain  there  ! 

To  whom  duty  and  victory  are  one  ; 
All  hail  to  Fame  and  Honor's  heir ! 

Whose  glory  rose  with  the  golden  sun  ; 
The  foremost  spirit  of  the  fields  that  Retribution  won. 

To  poets,  he's  a  song  from  the  sea, 

Whene'er  their  pulses  with  freedom  throng  ; 
To  freemen,  one  with  Liberty  ; 

An  upraised  hand  against  the  wrong  ; 
And  we'll  take  Washington  from  our  heart  ere  Dewey 

[from  our  song. 

DIRGE. 


Sailors  lay  me  in  my  grave 
When  the  moon  is  on  the  wave; 
Sea-weed  for  my  winding  sheet, 
Coral  at  my  head  and  feet, 
Stars  above  their  vigils  keeping, 
Pale  moon -beams  upon  me  sleeping, 
Sea-bells  o'er  me  tolling,  tolling, 
Waters  'round  me  rolling,  rolling, 
Rolling  evermore. 

24 


THE  BLOCKADE  OF  SANTIAGO* 


Not  a  word  was  spoke  but  the  brief  command 
Of  the  brave  Lieutenant  of  the  Merrimac ; 

Not  a  hero  among  the  little  band 

On  the  fading  star  of  his  hope  looked  back, 

As  swiftly  the  collier,  into  the  mouth  of  hell, 
The  dauntless  ministers  of  Liberty  bore, 

With  Freedom  and  Hope  behind  them  and  fell 
El  Morro  Castle  and  the  Spaniards  before. 

"  Into  the  Channel  and  block  up  the  port, 
And  the  death  will  do  us  reverence  "— 
But  the  distant  guns  of  the  enemy  retort, 
Clouding  the  fire  of  those  lips  intense. 

Onward,  yet  onward,  the  Merrimac  rides, 

And  the  dunest  thunders  of  Spain  wrap  it  round  ; 

But  his  robes  shall  be  robings  of  glory,  who  bides 
Till  the  Channel  is  blocked  to  the  bitter  ground. 

On,  on,  where  a  hero  can  let  Destiny  slip ! 

And  the  wave  is  white  with  the  ghost  of  a  shroud, 
And  the  fires  are  trained  in  the  hole  of  the  ship, 

And  El  Morro  hangs  o'er  like  a  thunder  cloud. 

The  fires  are  trained  in  the  hole  of  the  ship 

Where  the  mines  were  laid  with  no  thought  of  the 

And  the  Eight  have  let  their  destiny  slip    [morrow  ; 
Under  the  walls  of  Castle  El  Morro. 

25 


Kissing  its  burial,  the  collier  divides, 

Yet  proudly  the  flag  of  the  Union  waves  o'er, 

Till,  fearing  the  fate  of  her  soldiers,  she  hides 
The  stars  of  her  victory  'neath  the  watery  floor. 

But  safe  from  the  Merrimac's  thunder-lapped  side, 
On  the  flow  of  the  shell-rent  waters  upborne, 

Under  truced  El  Morro  the  heroes  ride 

Who  gave  themselves  up  to  glory  that  morn. 

To  glory  and  to  the  Castilians'  bars, 

Which  have  fallen  like  broken  reeds  away, 

For  what  deed  was  done  in  the  Antillian  Wars 
Like  the  fadeless  deed  of  those  Eight  that  day  ? 


SONNET* 


Columbia,  from  my  true  judgment's  birth, 

I  loved  thee  ever  and  do  love  thee  still ; 
And  something  have  recorded  of  thy  worth, 

Made  musical  what  better  minds  made  real. 
Yet  love  for  thee  has  still  been  qualified 

With  fearfulness  that  thou'rt  imbued  with  wrong  : 
Nor,  though  I  warmly  sing,  mayest  be  denied 

An    unrecorded  pause  behind  the  song. 
For  thou  ignoble  riches  hast  up-laid, 

Which  first  He  sends  who  would  destroy,  while  Art 
Hath  scarce  the  worship  of  hypocrisy. 

The  music  and  the  vision  are  betrayed — 
No  god  leaps  up  within  thy  artist's  heart 

Creative  through  a  nation's  sympathy. 

26 


PEACE. 

Peace  counts  her  host  beneath  the  morning  star  ; 

Peace  counts  that  host  beneath  the  evening  star  :- 

The  battle  Spirit — still  invisible, 

But  filled  with  visible  and  fearful  works — 

Which  darkness  loosened,  when  that  April  morn 

Sealed  up  its  bloody  edicts  of  revolt, 

Has  fled  afar  into  the  wilderness, 

And  Peace  is  come  again,  her  fair  large  brow 

Illustrious  with  those  far-beaming  lights 

That  play  around  the  golden  morning  tops 

Where  spirits  mild  by  spirits  have  been  seen. 

Phalanx  and  squadron  and  battalion  fade, 

Like  some  huge  bulk  seen  distant  in  a  dream 

Before  the  bright  approach  of  clement  Morn  : 

The  navies  melt  away  and  birds  of  calm, 

O'er  that  chaffed  flood  and  chaos  of  their  track, 

Circle  in  ever-radiating  light ; 

The  soldiers  and  the  captains  sleep  the  sleep, 

No  more  a  toy  to  war's  calamity, 

Who  fell  with  light  upon  them  from  the  Cause  ; 

The  living  soldier  also  has  his  rest, 

With  dreams  of  love  and  wakings  of  renown. 

The  larger  hope  is  come  ;  the  flowing  arc 

Of  that  still  clouded  circle  grown  apace 

That  alien  lands  have  glimpses  of  the  whole, 

Whose  fullness  is  the  measure  of  our  race  : 

The  mantle  o'er  our  growth  is  cast  aside, 

Which  was  in  secret,  as  the  larger  growth 

27 


Was  ever  since  that  shapeless  Chaos  fell, 
Flamed  o'er  by  Light  from  out  her  silent  morn, 
And  Titan  of  the  elder  world  we  spring 
Perceived  where  seemed  no  puissance  eterne. 
State-called,  the  powers,  potentates  and  thrones, 
Out  of  the  West,  return  into  the  East 
Which  gathered  in  their  spirits  astonied 
When  deep  laid  was  the  future's  corner-stone 
Blazoned  with  that  one  word,  "  Columbia/' 
Whose  shadow  on  the  earth's  high  places  falls  : 
While  "  I/iberty"  is  written  first  o'er  every  State. 


COLUMBIA  AND  THE  PHILIPPINES. 


The  Lord  who  made  thee  strong  had  made  thee  free, 
Upright,  and  unseduced  that  ye  should  flame 
The  sword  of  Heaven  o'er  Iberia's  shame, 

Till  she  die  into  light  and  liberty: 

Nor  armament  nor  wide  expanse  of  sea 

Didst  stay  thy  chastising  hand  divine,  nor  tame 
Thee,  O  Columbia,  who,  in  His  name, 

Didst  blot  with  thine  own  blood  that  history 

Of  sacrilege.     But  O,  Right  Hand  of  God, 
Why  tremblest  thou  to  lead  this  lesser  race 

Out  of  its  darkness!     Wilt  thou  be  His  rod 
And  not  His  angel?    Shall  His  patient  face 

Be  veiled  before  a  Nation  that  hath  trod 

But  half  the  upward  way  which  He  did  trace? 

28 


ODE. 

Come,  O  come,  bright  Spirit, 

Mellifluous  son  of  light ; 
Thou  who  shalt  inherit, 

With  thy  free  birthright, 
A  starry  crown  of  genius  gloriously  bright. 

Come,  thou  Poet  golden, 
Nursling  of  the  Nine, 
Spirit  unbeholden, 

Sire  of  mighty  line, 
Unborn,  yet  not  unprophesied,  come  forth  divine. 

Thou  to  whom  be  given, 

With  immortal  bays, 
That  last  gift  of  heaven, 

Which  is  chief  always, 
To  love  thy  native  land  and  sing  its  perfect  days. 

Come,  thou  Bard  supreme, 

Who  shall  hymn  the  Free ; 
Thou  whose  chiefest  theme 

Shall  be  Liberty, 
The  Democracy  that  is  and  Brotherhood  to  be. 

L,o  !  an  Epic  splendid 

Doth  thy  genius  wait, — 
The  Heroes  that  defended 

Liberty's  young  State  ; 
The  unwritten  Epic  of  the  Constitution's  Great, 

29 


Those  immortal  Founders 

That  have  gone  before  ; 
Those  creant  Expounders 

Whom  we  do  adore  : 
Those  old  heroic  Dreamers  who  shall  dream  no  more. 

Lo  !  a  Drama  stately 

Waits  thy  Spirit  afar,— 
Civil  strife  that  lately 

Struck  at  Freedom's  star  ; 
Fulfilling  union  thro*  disunion,  harmony  through  war. 

That  great  War  forerun 

By  the  civic  pen, 
Which  twice  was  fought  and  won 

In  the  Master's  ken, — 
On  the  fields  incarnadine  and  in  the  souls  of  men. 

Lo  !  a  glorious  Song 

Waits  thee  on  the  height, — 
Those  sweet  bursts,  that  throng 

E'en  the  pulse  of  night, 
Of  Liberty  rejoicing  in  the  main  of  light. 

That  transcendent  paean 

Pleasing  unto  Him, 
Sweeter  than  the  strain 

Of  vocal  Seraphim ; 
That  gladness  of  the  Free  which  is  Columbia's  hymn. 


Come,  O  come,  bright  Spirit 

To  this  pleasant  sward  ; 
Thou  who  shalt  inherit 

Freedom's  master  chord  : 
Come  thou  in  the  poet's  own  good  time,  beloved  Bard. 

Come,  thou  Avatar, 

Glorious  Son  of  Song, 
Thou  whose  golden  star 
Is  o'er  Olympus  hung, 

Where  the  sacred  Nine  are  leading  thee  from  the  morning 

[tops  among. 

SONNET. 


The  Poet  stood  upon  the  bivouacked  fields  of  fear  ; 

(Where  Death  had  reared  his  dark  pavilion  on  the 

[height 

And  looked  out  o'er  a  kingdom  girt  with  lurid  light, 
Which  War  had  made  him  heir  to  as  his  loved  compeer.) 
The  morning  star  came  down  and,  in  the  white  dawn 

Faded  the  starry  constellations  on  his  sight,     [clear, 

Even  as  past  away  in  multitudinous  flight 
The  spirits  of  those  thousands  slain  in  battle  drear. 
But,  Lo  !  another  star  is  in  the  firmament — 

The  golden  sun  is  bowing  the  blue  East  with  light  ; 
And,  in  the  sovereign  morn,  the  Poet's  heart  is  bent 
To  hymn  a  glorious  resurrection  ere  the  night 
Of  that  great  multitude  which  past  before  the  spheres : 
So  hymns  the  Poet's  heart  divine  with  its  stops  of  hu- 

[man  fears. 

31 


COLUMBIA. 


She  is  sowing  in  her  mighty  youth 

The  first  seeds  of  decay : 
She  has  paid  a  guilty  price  in  gold 

That  blood  may  not  un-pay  : 
She  has  flamed  the  Orient  to  war 
For  imperial  Caesar's  pay. 

She  is  departing,  departing, 
Departing  from  the  truth. 

She  has  ta'en  Jehovah's  name  in  vain 

With  the  name  of  Destiny  : 
Her  free-born  People  runneth  back 

The  path  of  Liberty, 
And  bring  again  the  lightless  age 
Of  human  tyranny. 

She  is  departing,  departing, 
Departing  from  the  truth. 

She  is  summoning  Oppression's  Host 

By  the  bell  on  Liberty  Hall : 
And  the  starry  flowers  of  Liberty 

Are  dead  and  withering  all 
Wherever  the  ironed  and  bloody  tread 
Of  ignoble  Empire  doth  fall. 

She  is  departing,  departing, 
Departing  from  the  truth. 

32 


She  is  teaching  Liberty's  first  lesson 

Shall  be  Oppression's  war  : 
While  Liberty  the  hills  among 

Where  rose  her  morning  star, 
Long  lingering,  looks  her  last  upon 
The  white-domed  Capitol  afar. 

She  is  departing,  departing, 
Departing  from  the  truth. 

Lighted  by  the  restless  planet  Mars, 

Her  drama  doth  unfold  ; 
Freedom  is  widowed  of  her  sons, 

While  Honor  groweth  cold, 

And  like  unto  a  scroll  played  out 

The  Constitution  's  upr oiled. 

She  is  departing,  departing, 
Departing  from  the  truth. 


THE  POLITICIANS. 


Look  on  this  politician,  then  on  this, 

As  like  as  Judas'  to  Iscariot's  kiss. 

Which  is  the  greater  knave  ?"  men  ask  in  vain, 

Since  both  are  damned  and  will  be  damned  again. 

And  when,  in  opposition,  they  fight  for  pelf 

The  Devil  seems  divided  'gainst  himself. 


33 


ODE  TO  PAULINE. 


I. 

Thou  art  not  dead,  Pauline,  nor  I  despair: 

Thy  spirit  was  not  given  to  the  urn. 
Cold  was  thy  body,  cold  thy  forehead  fair, 

And  in  thine  eyes  no  more  the  light  did  burn  ; — 
Emptied  of  life — all  but  thy  golden  hair, 

Where  death  was  softened  till  it  seemed  as  sleep — 

Thou  lay  in  pallid  robes  on  rigid  bier : 
Yet  thine  immortal  spirit  was  not  there  ; 

'Twas  but  its  vesture  o'er  which  we  did  keep 
A  blinded  watch  through  all  the  darkness  drear. 

II. 
Thou  art  not  dead,  Pauline  ;   'tis  Death  that's  dead. 

Within  yon  marble  vault,  thy  sweet  form  lies, 
But  thine  immortal  spirit  has  long  fled 

Unto  that  nearer  Land  than  those  dim  skies. 
Faith  was  not  shaken  by  thy  father's  tears — 
Tears  !  these  upon  our  bridal  morn  he  shed, 

Yet  we  did  not  eternal  farewell  take. 
Nay,  Love,  my  heart  is  empty  of  all  fears ; 

He  wept  that  thou  wast  a  bride  again — not  dead — 
The  bride  of  Death  that  would  in  Heaven  wake. 


34 


III. 

Thou  visit  rue  in  other  ways  than  dreams  : 

Spirit  to  Spirit  sometimes  do  we  meet ; 
And  oft  thy  face,  in  visionary  gleams, 

lyooks  out  upon  me  from  thy  hidden  seat. 
Thy  very  portrait  is  alive  to  me, 

Soft  breathing  words  of  tenderness  and  love. 

I  cannot  stir  abroad  amid  the  flowers 
But  that  the  risen  lark  sings  hymns  of  thee, 

As  he  doth  soar  in  golden  light  above 

And  pour  one  spirit  through  the  vernal  hours. 

IV. 

Nearer  than  earth  the  heavens  are  to  me — 

One  who  has  never  lost  in  mortal  night 
The  sweet  ideal  of  immortality, 

That  star  that  dawns  upon  our  being's  height — 
And,  L,ove,  the  air  more  blessed  grows  and  clear 

As  I  draw  nearer  to  thy  dwelling  bright, 
And  to  the  shore  of  that  immortal  sea  : 
And  soon,  Pauline,  without  a  doubt  or  fear, 

I'll  come  and  dwell  amid  the  fields  of  light, 
And  ever  know  that  ye  shall  ever  be. 


35 


ODE  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  MAY. 


Child  of  Light,  awake  to  love 
'Neath  the  bloomy  almond  grove: 
Half  in  shadow  half  in  light 
Hope,  in  azure  robes  bedight, 
Whispers  that  the  springs  are  thawed: 
Fancy,  star-eyed,  peeps  abroad, 
Casting  buds  of  white  and  gold 
On  the  waters  from  the  wold: 
While  the  white  swan,  with  his  dove, 
Stately  turns  to  lakes  above. 

Dropping  languor  from  the  South, 
Drowsy  airs  of  dewy  drouth 
Stir  the  verdure  o'er  the  lea 
Now  a  sea  of  melody: 
And  the  painted  butterfly, 
With  enchanted  curtained  eye, 
Rideth  on  the  golden  swell 
Of  the  tincted  asphodel; 
And  in  its  winged  haunted  view 
Morn  is  flowers  and  sweet  dew. 

Now  the  mountain  lake  has  got 
Crystal  old  romance  has  not, 
Where  the  ousel  tunes  his  call 
To  the  swaying  waterfall: 
And  the  poet  on  the  mount 
Breathes  the  evening's  starry  count, 
When  the  crystal  spheres  of  night 
Lap  themselves  in  golden  light, 
And  teach  new  heavens  how  to  glow 
Upon  the  path  of  Love  below. 

36 


Child  of  Light,  awake  to  love 

Him  who  wanders  through  the  grove, 

While  the  heavens  far  and  true 

Take  a  tender'  rarer  blue. 

He  has  waited  long  for  thee 

At  the  gates  of  melody: 

He  has  sung  with  faithful  breath 

That  there  is  no  dream  but  death : 

He  has  sung  ye  would  arise 

With  the  day-spring  in  thine  eyes. 

Now,  his  heart  a  casket  is, 
And  a  poet's  gifts  are  his; 
Clustered  verse  and  linked  rhyme, — 
Sorrows  pearls  in  golden  time — 
Tears  that  never  more  are  tears, 
Fears  that  never  more  are  fears, 
But  have  suffered  change  divine, 
In  the  poet's  melodious  line, 
And  are  gems  of  vocal  fire 
Such  as  hung  on  Apollo's  lyre. 

Awake,  arise,  and  haste  all  lone 
Where  the  fountains  make  sweet  moan, 
Quired  by  spirits  of  the  vale 
Wandering  on  the  vernal  gale. 
Long  thy  poet  stays  for  thee 
With  his  gifts  of  melody; 
And  will  woo  thee  in  the  light 
Of  the  morn  or  noon -day  bright, 
Or  by  some  liquid  twilight  fount, 
Or  Dian  on  a  silver  mount. 

37 


AN  INVITATION. 


Come  away,  sweet  maiden, 

To  a  brighter  clime, 
Where  the  air  is  laden 

With  the  dewy  thyme ; 
Where  olives  scent  the  orange,  the  orange  the  golden  lime. 

Where  a  light  of  flowers 

Leads  the  spirit  on 
Of  the  golden  hours, 

And  from  lawn  to  lawn 
Exhales  all  night  in  musk  that  overbrims  the  dawn. 

Where  the  stars  are  golden, 

And  the  moments  seem 
Brighter  than  the  olden 

Times  by  Eden's  stream  ; 
And  love  is  but  awakening  to  a  sweeter  dream. 

Where  at  dawn  up-springest 

Birds  of  Paradise, 
Which  the  deep  blue  wingest 

Till  bright  Venus  rise 
And  Philomel  scales  in  song  the  pure  cerulean  skies. 

Never  harm  befall  thee 

In  that  valley  blest : 
Never  aught  shall  gall  thee, 

Loveliest  and  Best ; 
The  conscious  rose  shall  shed  its  dews  upon  thy  breast. 

38 


Spirits  shall  adore  thee 

From  their  hidden  seat : 
Spirits  go  before  thee, 

While  their  blessings  sweet, 
As  thick  as  pond-sown  lilies,  troop  around  thy  feet. 

In  the  dewy  morning, 

Love  shall  kneel  by  thee, 
Thy  bright  hair  adorning 

With  all  rarity 
Of  leaf  and  blossom  from  the  bloomy  almond  tree. 

In  the  golden  even, 

Love  shall  join  thy  song, 
Till  the  airs  of  heaven 

With  sweet  cadence  throng  ; 
While  mocking-birds  that  waking  joyance  shall  prolong. 

Hasten  then,  sweet  maiden, 

To  that  happy  land  : 
By  this  heart,  love-laden, 
By  that  melting  hand, 

I'll   make  thee  queen  of  all   bright   April's  bow  hath 

[spanned. 


39 


VIRGINIA. 


Her  look  is  like  the  light  that  comes  and  goes 
On  golden  mists  that  blind  a  summer  moon: 
Her  eyes  are  tender  as  the  fond  twilight 
That  in  the  east  opes  wide  a  vesper  casement 
And  hangs  enamoured  o'er  the  whispering  sea: 
Her  smile  is  fresher  than  the  April  bow 
New  bent  in  heaven  o'er  the  faery  land: 
Her  step  is  a  new  song  before  my  door. 

I  walk  alone  beneath  the  twilight  palms 
Hesperus  hung,  and  aye  she  haunts  my  side 
With  absence  sweeter  than  an  angel's  presence; 
While,  from  yon  moon-gilded  magnolia, 
The  mocking-bird  out  poureth  his  full  heart 
To  Dian  swooned  upon  a  silver  sea. 


AN  EXHORTATION. 


O!  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  enter  through  the  portals  of  the 

[dawn, 

Where  but  God  has  gone  before  and  with  His  hands  the 

[bolts  withdrawn. 

O!  my  Spirit's  ears,  awaken  to  the  music  of  the  spheres: 
O!  mine  eyes,  look  unto   God  for  God  through  all  the 

[  corning  years. 

O!  be  jubilant,  my  feet,  to  tread  the  dark  uneven  path 
Where  He's  sowing  men  to  reap  the  Angel  in  the  after- 

[  math. 

40 


O!  my  heart,  think  not  the  leaven  and  the  light  divine 

[are  vain, 

That  the  better  moment  is  a  lie  and  man  is  dust  again; 

But,  my  spirit,  be  persuaded  thou  mayest  triumph  over 

[dust, 
That  the  heavens  look  upon  a  swift  re-union  of  the  Just. 

O!  my  soul,  whate'er  ye  make  your  doubts  or  from  what 

[faith  ye  turn, 
See  ye  make  thy  brother  and  integrity  thy  deep  concern. 

Tender  bend  the  heavens  o'er  him  and  the  grave  is  sweet 

[  beneath 

Who  hath  labored  still  for  others  and  hath  worn  a  spotless 

[  wreath. 

And  if  ye  shall  find  no  new  truth  let  thy  strength  sustain 

[an  old, 

Till  thy  shield  is  taken  from  thee  and  thy  sword  rusts  in 

[the  mold. 

O!  my  spirit,  labor  jointly  in  that  battle  'gainst  the  wrong, 
IvOosening  down  the  sweep  of  time  an  avalanche  of  light 

[and  song, 

While  the  works  that  make  men  free  are  leading  Earth 

[  into  His  dawn, 

And  the  Worker's  hand  is  touching  robes  of  glory  He 

[hath  on. 


THE  IDLE  AND  DISSOLUTE  RICH  MAR 


He  toils  not,  neither  does  he  rest, 
Nor  blesses  others,  nor  is  blest : 
Most  heavy  'tis  to  see, 
More  grievous  yet  to  be. 

Each  morn  the  golden  sun  returns, 
But  not  his  simple  task  that  earns 
Both  bread  and  appetite, 
As  with  a  double  might. 

His  pleasures  are  of  Fever's  train, 
And  leave  his  heart  forespent  with  pain  : 
His  griefs  have  left  him  wrought, 
That  patience  should  have  taught. 

He  palters  in  Ambition's  name  ; 

Had  lost  his  blush  ere  found  his  fame  : 
And  honor  's  oft  o'er-leaped 
For  gains  as  lightly  kept. 

Yet  soon  to  him  'tis  evidenced 
That  honest  toil,  unrecompensed, 
Is  more,  an  hundred  fold, 
Than  guilty  works  with  gold. 

He  neither  tills  nor  sows  the  land  ; 

And  first  ashamed  of  his, own  hand 
In  labor,  next  enroll — 
Ashamed  of  his  own  soul. 


His  hands  are  gloved  and  soft  and  white, 
Nor  yet  have  toiled  or  day  or  night ; 
But  hands  of  soft  repose 
Shall  sow  no  fragrant  rose. 

Shall  raise  no  temple  stones  to  God, 
Nor  strike  the  rock  with  Plenty's  rod ; 
Shall  build  no  ship  of  steel 
To  guard  his  Country's  weal. 

The  Spring,  with  all  her  star-linked  days, 
Those  golden  keys  to  fertile  ways, 
Shall  never,  from  the  loam, 
Unlock  his  harvest  home. 

For  he  has  never  tilled  the  sod, 
Nor  been  joint-laborer  with  God 
In  bringing  harvest  time, 
When  earth  is  sweet  with  thyme. 

No  birds  of  eve  or  dawning  sing 
In  trees  whose  seeds  his  hands  did  bring. 
Shall  spring  no  grassy  beds 
In  that  long  way  he  treads. 

With  all  his  wealth  he  shall  be  poor, 
For  Home,  that  haven  something  more 
Than  Country  and  but  less 
Than  Heaven,  shall  not  bless. 

And  Health  shall  have,  on  every  hour, 
An  unfurled  wing,  and  fly  his  power ; 
Nor  scarce  shall  be  a  hope 
Though  doctors  hourly  cope. 

43 


Nor  shall  he  leave  his  children  wealth, 
Who  shall  not  leave  them  hardy  health  : 

'Tis  an  empty  testament 

If  parent  health  is  spent. 

Nor  he  is  blest  who  leaves  behind 

The  honor  of  a  gifted  mind, 

Yet  leaves  a  feeble  child 
To  mourn  its  birth  un  mild. 

And  what  is  life  to  live  and  know 
Man's  better  thoughts,  that  burn  and  glow, 
Condemn  that  false  estate 
On  which  his  soul  doth  wait. 


THE  IDLE  RICH  MAN  WHO  DWELLS  IN  A  CITY. 


He  shall  not  know  how  near  unto  the  Poor, 
That  labor  in  the  fields,  the  Father  is  ; 

Nor  rest  at  even  by  his  cottage  door 
And  feel  God's  providence  is  also  his. 

The  dew  shall  fall,  but  not  upon  his  field  : 

The  night  shall  come,  nor  lull  his  fold  to  rest : 
The  rain  descend,  and  all  its  sweetness  yield, 
Nor  glisten  on  his  meadow's  silver  vest. 

He  shall  not  know  the  Seasons  of  the  year ; 

The  tender  Spring-time  hath  no  blade  for  him, 
Within  the  Summer  is  no  rip'ning  ear, 

The  Autumn  hath  no  sheaf  with  golden  rirn. 

44 


For  him  the  fold's  dumb  lips  shall  never  move  ; 

Nor,  in  the  Autumn,  shall  the  birds  with  song 
Follow  God's  providence  from  grove  to  grove, 

As  they  fly  Southward  where  the  sunbeams  throng. 

Above  no  fields  he  sowed  with  golden  grain, 
In  hope  of  harvest,  shall  the  bow  be  bent, 

A  covenant  that  there  is  cease  of  rain 
In  heaven  and  the  golden  sun  is  sent. 

To  him  the  dew,  the  sunlight,  and  the  rain, 
Shall  seem  no  Father's  gift  unto  his  child, 

To  ripen  all  his  fields  of  tender  grain, 

And  fill  his  trees  with  fruit  and  foliage  mild. 

The  Evening  Star  shall  never  light  him  home 
And  enter  through  his  door  a  Presence  bright : 

Nor  shall  the  Morning  Star,  from  heaven's  dome, 
Be  unto  him  a  herald  and  a  light. 

He  shall  not  dwell  within  his  father's  cot, 
But  ever  journey  from  his  father's  grave  : 

To  wander  o'er  the  earth  shall  be  his  lot, 

For  Home  is  that  sweet  gift  which  Labor  gave. 


THEODOSIA. 


Thou  wast  the  light  behind 

My  countenance ; 
Thou  wast  the  music 

In  my  soul. 

I  had  been  dwelling  in 

Thy  radiance — 
Now  the  dim  waters 

O'er  thee  roll. 

45 


SONNETS. 


Hazel  Viola,  five  sweet  years  and  thee 

Didst  tread  those  banks  of  asphodels  that  bring 
The  little  maiden,  'neath  seraphic  wing 
Shielded,  to  earthly  cot;  and  thy  wild  glee 
That  leaps  the  hours  through  all  moody-free, 
Thine  eyes  of  soft  accent,  and  locks  that  fling 
A  charm  upon  a  charm,  and  hands  that  cling, 
Thou  stole  from  cherubim.     So  when  on  thee 
Mine  eyes,  that  to  the  heart  are  melted  through, 
In  tender  lingerance  rest,  I  fondly  write — 
This  is  a  bud  that  springs  from  Paradise, 
Fed  on  its  light  and  sweet  untroubled  dew 
That  it  shall  never  fade  from  loving  sight, 

But  dwell  in  guarded  wa}rs  'neath  perfect  skies. 


O,  heart  o'  mine,  hast  all  thy  love  decayed, 

Untimely  fallen  in  sweet  Summer's  front  ! 
Thy  love,  Beloved,  which  Autumn  needst  arrayed 

In  purple  sheaf  and  made  its  special  vaunt  ? 
Hast  all  my  gold  been  sunset  without  morn  ? 

Love's  balmy  flower  but  the  rose  of  Faith  ? 
Hath  Cupid's  fields  been  sown  to  Dian's  thorn  ? 

And  Love's  sweet  body  changed  to  misty  wraith  ? 
O  then,  Beloved,  thou  loved  too  well  to  last ; 

This  wild-fire  love  has  burned  thy  heart  away : 
Thou  should  have  loved  less  madly  in  the  past, 

So  hadst  thou  loved  me,  dear  my  Love,  for  aye. 
Then,  sweet,  take  heed ;  and  when  thou  love  again 
O  love  me  temperately,  or  love  in  vain. 

46 


O  rare  those  melodies  heard  in  a  dream, 

Which  move  the  wakened  brain  again  to  sleep, 
Dreaming  in  music's  undefiled  stream 

Once  more  the  all-delighted  spirit  to  steep  : 
O  rare  the  stirrings  in  the  secret  pipe 

Of  him  who  makes  new  music  in  the  land  : 
O  rare  the  nightingale  when  lips  are  ripe  : 

O  rare  the  morn  which  thrice  the  lark  hath  fanned  ; 
But,  Love,  thy  dulcet  breath  makes  sweeter  maze, 

Which,  like  a  golden  star  low  hung  o'er  thee, 
Searches  thee  out  by  many  winding  ways  ; 

And  passion,  answering  thy  melodious  glee, 
Lo,  even  from  the  west  to  east  shall  beat 
Immortal  music  'gainst  thy  agate  seat. 


O  weary,  way-worn  pilgrim  of  this  star, 

Forever  seeking  rest  forever  lost, 
Like  some  gray  billow  beating  on  that  bar 

Whose  magic  sands  no  toiling  tide  e'  er  crost ; 
O  ye  who  turn  to  dust  as  to  a  couch 

Which  loving  hands  have  spread  in  toil's  respite, 
And,  drawing  'round  the  marble  curtain,  crouch 

In  dark  Oblivion's  immemorial  night ; 
Ye  still  have  been  a  dusty  prophecy 

And  image  of  my  life  when  Hope  is  fled  : 
Nor  shall  the  thunders  of  that  farther  sea 

Rive  the  eternal  privilege  of  the  dead 
Should  not  the  twain  infinities  hold  fast 
That  virgin  glory  which  from  earth  hath  past. 

47 


Lo,  on  thy  quiet  breast  and  rigid  bier, 
Bedewed,  bedight  in  pallid  purity, 
And  drowned  in  flood  of  weeping  ecstacy, 

Faint  lilies  have  been  strewed  in  wreathed  tier 

With  spray  of  greenest  ivy  never  sere; 
And,  gathered  to  thy  couch,  all  rarity 
Of  bloomy  Summer's  sweet  posterity 

Odorous  memories  breathe  of  old  times  dear. 

Ah,  well  we  knew  the  parting  ere  you  died, 

That  all  our  prayers  did  less  than  peace  behove; 
And  fearfully  was  this  wedded  spirit  tried 

To  look  with  thee  upon  the  flowers,  Love, 

And  know  my  hand  must  brush  away  their  dew 
And  bring  them,  heavily,  thy  grave  to  strew. 


O  Love!  O  Life!  O  Death!  yield  up  thy  deeps 
And  quench  this  immemorial  thirst  in  me, 

Even  as  the  root  is  quenched  when  Winter  steeps 
In  ever-pelting  rain  the  hungered  tree: 

0  give  my  spirit  drink  till  I  am  filled 

Of  those  dim  waters  which  we  call  unto, 
Aloud  and  in  secret,  and  will  not  be  stilled 
Till  we  may  drink  as  grasses  drink  the  dew. 

1  thirst,  I  fail,  I  fall,  on  deserts  idle; 

My  soul  is  faint  with  calling  on  the  sea, 
Aloud  and  in  secret,  for  the  living  well 

To  quench  this  immemorial  thirst  in  me; 
My  soul  is  faint  with  calling  for  that  draught 
Whose  wells  were  choked  ere  yet  their  dews  were 

[  sought. 

48 


Be  Genius  to  my  mind,  thou  evening  sea, 

Which  has  been  quietless  since  a  power  came 
And  dwelt  within  as  an  abiding  flame, 

Which  makes  the  spirit  something  kin  to  thee — 

Inviolate,  and  as  thy  waters  free 

That  all  the  pride  of  empire  cannot  tame; 
(Bulwark,  as  in  thy  sands  a  fleeting  name 

When  thou  roll  in  the  thunders  of  thy  glee.) 

Truth  shall  possess  me,  and  my  spirit  be 
The  mirror  of  the  golden  firmament; 

Beauty  shall  move  upon  me  like  the  night 

Orion  hung;  grace  shall  abide  with  me; 
Immortal  music  shall  be  mine;  and  light 
Tender  as  twilight  with  clear  waters  blent. 


LO,  o'er  the  keys  the  blind  Musician  bends  ; 

Hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  his  face, 

And  darkness  all  his  lashes  interlace: 
To  him  no  more  the  morn  a  herald  sends 
Of  golden  season,  nor  the  noonday  lends 

Art  to  uplift  his  brow  to  nature's  race 

And  search  the  tides  of  flooding  day,  or  trace 
Man  or  the  sweet  Companion  him  attends. 
Yet  unto  him  beatitudes  remain; 

A  soul  removed  not  dimmed,  and  art  divine 

To  search  harmonious  keys,  though  light  shall  fail, 
In  home,  in  temple,  or  in  sacred  fane, 

And  wake  aloft  the  organ's  yearning  trine 
To  those  concordant  sounds  that  lift  the  Veil. 

49 


Shakespeare,  it  is  the  chiefest  praise  of  thine 

Thou' rt  so  commingled  with  our  blood  and  brain 
We  reckon  not  a  time  before  thy  strain 

Had  filled  the  world  with  melody  divine; 

For  thou  art  even  as  the  warm  sunshine, 
Or  as  the  dew  or  ever-falling  rain, 
Which  as  a  common  part  with  life  are  ta'en, 

Without  beginning — and  without  decline. 

But  yet  there  was  a  time  thy  strain  was  not, 

When  through  the  wide  world  it  was  unadored,- — 

Ere  earth  was  tender  and  thou  wast  begot; 

And,  since  there  was  a  time  before  thou  soared, 

Shall  not  a  poet-lover  dream  a  new  dream 

What  time  shall   hail   thy  heir  from  some  melodious 

[  stream. 


Ah,  ah,  Paulina  !  my  elected  love, 

I  cannot  think  thee  false  and  angels  true, 
For  thou  art  one  with  that  bright  race  above, 

And  in  thy  hair  3Tet  trembles  Heaven's  blue. 
Around  thy  feet  the  asphodels  still  cling ; 

The  rose  of  Paradise  is  at  thy  breast ; 
And  oft  thou  smilest  as  thou  still  heard  sing 

The  angels,  audibly,  among  the  Blest. 
Then  come  thee  down,  Beloved,  unto  the  sea 

At  even  when  the  West  is  hung  with  gold  : 

Music  shall  breathe,  and  when  that  music  cease 
Thyself  be  sweeter  music  unto  me. 

O  come  thee  down,  Beloved,  and  let  me  hold 

Thy  heart  again  and  know  again  that  perfect  peace. 

50 


Ah,  well  I  know  that  hollow  words  will  live 

When  noble  deeds  are  fallen  by  the  way, 
And  all  that  oft  nobility  may  give 

Is  but  a  lustre  to  a  fleeting  day; 
That  fulsome  volumes  in  skilled  charact'ry 

Outlive  a  hero  linked  to  radiant  light; 
And  deeds  that  knock  at  Heaven's  gate  may  be 

Of  dull  oblivion  ere  the  angels  write. 
Yet  rest  I  in  a  Providence  divine 

To  glorify  the  secret  ways  He  trod 
When  rotted  is  that  pageantry  of  thine; 

And,  when  thy  charact'ry  with  age  is  dim, 

His  melting  race  will  be  a  glorious  hymn 
Written  in  spirit  and  published  in  God. 


Of  immortality,  which  is  the  chief 

Of  human  hopes, — above  all  hopes  how  high- 

The  greatest  faith  has  moments  which  deny, 
The  greatest  doubt  has  moments  of  belief, 
Since  none  are  certain  whether  life  is  brief, 

As  oft  it  seems,  or  whether  they  who  die 

An  immortality  doth  glorify, 
Making  our  lamentation  waste  of  grief. 
Yet  still,  despite  the  heavy  doubts  which  crush, 

Despite  no  evidence  which  all  men  trust, 
Hope  has  a  voice  the  ages  cannot  hush, 

Whispering  this  irrecoverable  dust 
Doth  close  around  a  heavenly  denizen  : 
And  he  lives  best  who  lives  to  live  again. 


The  gods  chalk  out  the  way  when  wise  men  run, 
For  Seraphim  can  be  no  more  than  wise 
And  love  that  mortal  in  whom  wisdom  lies. 

Who  turns  his  back  to  night  will  face  the  sun  ; 

And  courage  sees  the  honors  to  be  won, 
While  fear  sees  but  the  evils  which  arise. 
To  work  is  to  be  free  ;  and  with  who  plies 

A  noble  work  eternity  is  begun. 

Then  search  out  wisdom  though  it  lead  from  wealth, 
For  riches  oft  to  madness  are  allied, 

While  wisdom  knows  the  secret  place  of  health : 
Have  courage,  and  all  pains  are  qualified  : 

Fear  not,  nor  cease  to  plough  life's  stubborn  sod, 

And  at  the  furrow's  end  thou  wilt  see  God. 


There  is  no  future  but  the  past — eternity 

Is  still  before,  not  after  :  none  are  free — not  one  : 
Ages  before  Man  was,  his  puppet  race  was  run  : 

Greece  rose  in  glory  ere  her  own  divinity, 

And  Rome  declined  ere  waked  the  Nilus  hierarchy  : 
Laughter  and  tears  from  the  infinite  fiat  are  won — 
The  play  was  played  before  the  mighty  stage  begun: 

Belief  in  human  freedom  is  an  old  decree. 

So  shall  we  live  in  this  predestined  world  destined 
To  be  its  glory  or  its  honor  or  its  shame, 

To  wage  a  destined  war  against  a  destined  wrong, 

To  champion  human  freedom  to  the  destined  mind, 
Or  lend  to  Fate  addition  of  a  fated  name, 

A  puppet  in  the  multitudinous  puppet  throng. 

52 


THE  PESSIMIST. 


"  Though  Heaven  is  o'ercast,  it  not  recedes :" 

So  spoke  the  Voice  to  him  who  had  withdrawn 
His  face  from  men's,  as  one  who  inward  bleeds, 

Nor  yet  had  turned  to  God  ;  but  in  the  dawn 
He  past  unto  the  desert  by  the  sea 

And  made  the  mists  his  tent.     His  heart  was  dead  : 
Dead  was  the  hope  and  the  divinity  : 

Far  off  the  music  and  the  dream  had  fled. 
Unto  the  stars  he  is  become  a  voice 

That  crieth  up  at  night  of  emptiness, — 
The  utter  emptiness  of  human  choice  ; 

Of  blessings  dubitable  that  do  not  bless  ; 
Of  love,  where  nothing  sweet  is  long  drawn  out  ; 
Of  learning,  seeking  for  all  truths  to  find  a  doubt. 


SONNET  TO  WHISKY. 


Ye  spirit  of  the  Autumn's  ripened  grain, 
Ye  liquid  fruitfulness  of  wheat  and  rye, 
Ye  pleasant  runnings  tinct  with  amber  dye, 

Ye  honey  of  the  golden  dew  and  rain, 

Ye  sunshine  which  in  Summer  was  up  lain 
In  oaten  chalice  'gainst  a  lightless  sky, 
Give  me  to  drink  that  I  may  justify 

The  estimation  and  the  poets'  strain. 

Ye  malted  stuff  out  of  which  fools  are  made, 
Whoso  shall  drink  of  thee  may  enter  in 
The  land  dolorous  by  a  sudden  way ; 

All  Hell  lies  there  before,  and  gathering  shade 
Is  calling  unto  shade — What  now  will  stay  ? 
Here  shall  the  man  leave  off  and  drink  begin. 

53 


INVOCATION  FOR  A  LINCOLN  EPIC 


Descend,  ye  sacred  Nine,  whose  sweet  influence, 

From  forth  blue  Olympus,  harmonious  numbers  move. 

Ye  who  whilom  inspired  the  Ionian  Bard 

Who  breathed  the  morning  star  o'er  early  Greece 

And  gave  to  poetry  the  eternal  years, 

Descend,  and  teach  this  steadfast  mind  and  free 

To  be  a  prophet  with  a  backward  eye  ; 

To  voice  a  love  long  lasting  as  the  world  ; 

To  throne  upon  the  tides  of  deathless  song 

The  foremost  figure  of  the  larger  faith, — 

Him,  whose  all-gentle  deed  was  without  peer, 

Whose  meaning  was  the  greatest  amongst  these  ; 

Descend,  and  teach  the  child  of  his  great  works, 

Within  the  diapason  of  a  hymn, 

To  limn  his  spirit  on  eternity 

Forever  living  for  his  fellow  men, 

Forever  laboring  for  his  fellow  men, 

Forever  suffering  for  his  fellow  men, 

Forever  dying  for  his  fellow  men. 

Genius  of  Poetry,  dwell  in  this  heart 

Where  his  large  utterances  are  the  pulse ; 

Make  me  a  voice  unto  his  living  voice 

Which  has  become  the  gentleness  of  law  ; 

To  his  intemporal  deeds,  make  me  the  word 

Intemporal.     And  thou,  O  Spirit  of  love, 

That  didst  in  him  look  upward  to  thy  fount, 

Make  me  not  less  in  love  and  charity, 

Not  less  in  that  large  utterance  of  love, 

That  I  may  speak  from  out  his  heart  of  heart, 

Who  made  the  rod  to  blossom  with  his  tears, 

And  link  Time  unto  Time  with  simple  faith. 

54 


LOVE  AT  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


From  the  surf,  where  mermen  sing, 
Cupid  comes,  all-armed,  a- wing, 
Flying  o'er  the  classic  green, 
Where  the  Sophomore  is  seen 
Blowing  smoke-wreaths  light  as  air 
In  the  heavy  eyes  of  Care  ; 
Where  sweet  bachelors  of  science 
By  their  converse  bid  defiance 
To  that  Godhead  hovering  o'er 
Whom  the  lover  doth  adore. 

I/o,  the  Blind  God  purposeth, 
With  his  bow  and  balmy  breath, 
To  o'erthrow  the  classics  true 
Through  the  amorous  rule  of  two  ; 
(Yet  to  do  his  enmity 
With  the  wings  of  courtesy). 
Purposeth  to  move  each  youth 
With  a  strange  mysterious  ruth, 
Kill  his  sleep  and  fill  his  eye 
With  a  lover's  fantasy  ; 
Haunt  the  grove  with  lovers'  eyes 
Ivit  to  grief  by  pale  fire-flies  ; 
Make  each  lovely  bachelor  sigh 
For  the  bachelor  of  her  eye  : 
Purposeth  to  do  each  deed 
On  which  amorous  poets  feed. 
Nor  a  lover  of  delay 
Straight  he  takes  the  instant  way. 

55 


— O  ye  Muses  nine  that  mount 

Guard  o'er  fancy's  classic  fount, 

And  ye  patron  spirits  of  science, 

Quickly  meet  in  firm  alliance 

And  transform  this  perjured  God, 

By  the  virtue  of  thy  rod, 

To  a  rose  on  weeping  brier 

Blushing  deep  as  painted  fire, 

Or  to  drops  of  morning  dew 

Trembling  guiltily  through  and  through. 

Lo,  a  Summer's  day  entranced, 
'Neath  a  Merlin  oak,  deep-branched, 
One,  a  Junior  of  thy  halls, 
Readeth  of  dim  waterfalls 
Where  o'er  all  and  woven  through 
Faery  land's  most  mystic  hue 
Runneth  to  love's  purple  lights, 
Linking  youth  to  fresh  delights  : 
Readeth  of  that  golden  morn 
When  the  God  of  Love  was  born : 
Readeth  of  that  golden  eve 
When  the  God  of  Love  did  leave 
The  first  poet  and  lover  sweet 
With  the  champak  at  his  feet. 
— O  revenge  has  drank  deep 
Of  Lethe,  whose  waters  steep 
Thee  in  all  forge tfulness, 
Or  this  sight  would  be  distress 
Past  endurance.     But,  O  see  ! 
Who  can  span  thy  misery  ? — 


Here  's  a  virgin  sick  to  death 
With  the  ruth  of  Cupid's  breath, 
While  Hypatia  's  all  forgot 
For  the  cup  of  Juliet's  lot. 

Fancy  hath  no  sweeter  child 
Than  yon  youth  with  forehead  mild  : 
He  can  see  the  stars  at  noon  ; 
By  the  light  of  yon  pale  moon 
He  hath  read  sweet  Nature's  book 
Opening  at  a  running  brook. 
But,  alas  !  that  book  is  closed 
Where  his  eyes  so  long  reposed 
For  a  maiden's  curl  a-gold 
Has  left  Nature's  volume  cold. 

O,  ye  Helicon,  make  moan 
For  the  Blind  God  's  on  thy  throne  : 
Science,  Science,  tremble  through, 
Love,  to  youth,  is  all  that  's  true. 
— Day  and  night  and  night  and  day 
Love  is  finding  out  a  way  : 
When  to  do  some  daring  feat 
Sophomores  and  Freshmen  meet, 
Breaking  forth  in  classic  cry 
Startling  midnight  stealing  by, 
Love  is  weaving  memory's  charms — 
(In  the  midst  of  stern  alarms). 
When  the  owl  in  mist  is  lapped 
And  the  Senior's  heart  is  wrapped 
In  deep  philosophic  gloom, 
Love  is  trembling  into  bloom. 


57 


When  the  Venus  of  the  sky 
Streams  from  heaven  gloriously, 
And  sweet  Dian  bathes  her  side 
Where  the  rushes  cleave  the  tide 
With  the  starlight  on  their  blade, 
Love  's  about  his  snares  well-laid. 
In  the  first  bright  pearl  of  day 
Of  the  sapphire  crowned  mid-May 
Love  is  tilting  without  ruth 
'Gainst  the  citadel  of  youth. 
When  the  campus  dust  is  laid 
And  the  leathern  ball  is  bayed, — 
(Now  the  gods,  at  festal  mirth, 
Ask  what  triumph  is  on  earth) 
And  victorious  curls  are  shook 
Which  to  tender  maidens  look 
Like  the  Nemean  lion's  mane 
When  the  thunders  'gin  complain, 
Love  assails  each  citadel 
Built  where  virgin  breasts  out-swell. 
Yea,  from  January's  snows, 
When  god  Zephyr  rudely  blows, 
Till  the  world  is  turned  to  gold 
And  the  Indian  mists  unfold, 
Love  is  pledged  in  dewy  wine, 
Love  triumphant  and  divine. 
O,  ye  Helicon,  make  moan 
For  the  Blind  God  's  on  thy  throne  : 
Science,  Science,  tremble  through, 
Love,  to  youth,  is  all  that  's  true. 


LISSOME  MAY. 


0  lissome  May, 
My  white  dove 
'Neath  falling  spray, 
Know  thy  Love; — 
All  in  the  dewy  morn 

The  rose  late  sprang  in  thy  way, 
The  rose  of  May: 

1  take  the  rose, 
I  take  the  way, 
And  all  love-lorn 

Come  to  thy  gate  at  morn, 
Lissome  May. 


SONG. 


My  Love  is  not  with  me  to-day, 

For  we  fell  out  at  morn: 
(  O  heigh  ho,  my  silly  lay, 

Heigh  ho,  my  Love  forlorn.) 

But  I  would  love  my  Love  again, 

And  I  would  hear  him  speak : 
(O  heigh  ho,  the  gentle  swain, 

Heigh  ho,  his  eyes  of  leek.) 

Then,  sweet  my  shepherd,  pipe  thee  down, 

And  I  will  pipe  to  thee: 
(  O  heigh  ho,  the  piping  down, 

Heigh  ho,  the  love  that's  free.) 

59 


THE  MASCOT. 


Hark,  they  come ! 

Fife  and  drum 
Marshalling  them  into  the  heart : 

Soldiers  these 

From  o'er  seas 
Where  Old  Glory  plays  its  part. 

Long  they  fought, 

Long  they  wrought ; 
Now  they  rest  while  others  dare. 

Cheer  the  while 

Rank  and  file, 
As  the  rockets  burst  in  air. 

But,  O  see  ! 

Who  is  he 
With  a  dove  within  his  hand  ; 

That  sweet  boy, 

Red  for  joy, 
Marching  with  the  soldier  band  ? 

Ay,  I  know  : 

Needs  be  so ; 
That  's  the  mascot  of  the  First. 

Heart  o'  mine, 

In  his  eyne 
There  is  luck  against  the  worst. 

60 


Tell  ine  true, 

Friend  in  blue, 
Am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong. 
"  It  is  so  : 

Thought  you'd  know  : 
That  's  our  mascot  marching  along." 

"  Out  at  sea 

Forth  came  he, 
When  we  sailed  unto  the  war  : 

Stowaway 

Half  a  day  ; 
Hid  somewhere  behind  a  spar." 

"Then  the  men 

Took  him  in: 
Made  him  mascot  of  the  First. 

And  the  while 

He  did  smile 
As  his  little  heart  would  burst. ' ' 

"Shot  and  shelf 

Round  him  fell; 
Still  he  cheered  and  led  our  line. 

When  at  hirst 

He  was  first 
With  his  canteen  full  of  wine." 

"  When  we  bled, 

At  our  head. 
Pointed  honor's  path  to  Home. 

When  we  died, 

Soft  he  cried 
Plucking  violets  from  the  loam." 

61 


Yet  'tis  queer, 

Now  he  's  near, 
That  I  see  a  quiver  there. 

And  those  things 

Can't  be  wings 
Trembling  on  his  shoulders  fair  ? 

O,  the  sweet! 

O,  the  cheat! 
Now  I  know  whom  I  knew  before: 

It  is  Love 

With  his  dove; 
And  he  laugheth  more  and  more. 

Have  with  you, 

Love  in  blue, 
Whom  all  know  and  who  know  all. 

By  this  day, 

Well  ye  play 
Mascot  to  those  soldiers  tall. 

Have  with  you, 

Love  in  blue: 
While  the  maidens,  low  and  high, 

Light  the  miles 

With  sweet  smiles 
As  Love  and  Youth  go  marching  by. 


62 


CAIN. 

The  nioon  arises  pale  and  wan 

And  glides  upon  its  flight ; 
It  seems  the  spirit  of  the  sun 

Haunting  the  night. 

A  bloody  star  doth  minister 

Within  its  tranced  sphere  ; 
A  still  small  voice  goeth  before 

Filling  with  fear. 

A  corpse  lies  in  the  wilderness 
With  dabbled  skull  a-gape  : 

A  white-haired  Cain  is  gibbering  there 
Changed  to  an  ape. 


THE  PLAGUE. 


With  heart  as  sad  as  tolls  the  midnight  bell, 
That  hath  no  faith,  above  the  plague  on  men, 
Once  more,  within  this  pestilential  fen, 

I  lay  my  head  beside  a  dried-up  well. 

Far  down  the  shadows  tolls  the  parting  knell 
And,  hushed  beneath  the  stars,  yet  once  again 
A  funeral  train  winds  on  the  tearless  ken, 

And  lips  without  a  meaning  beat  ''farewell. " 

O  God  !  when  will  this  aimless  breathing  cease, 
This  dark  chimera  empty  as  the  grave, 

This  dreaming  which  by  dreamers  is  called  "life"? 

When  will  thy  wide  creation  have  release  ? 

The  dreaming  end  ?  the  dreamer  cease  to  rave  ? 
And  all  things  pass  away  of  peace  and  strife  ? 


THINK  YE? 


Think  ye  that  Lincoln  wrought  and  died 

Than  man  enslave  his  kind  ? 
That  thou  a  brother's  hands  hath  tied 

And  made  his  soul  thy  hind. 

Think  ye  that  Shakespeare  loved  and  sang 

That  language  be  to  curse  ? 
That  thou  thy  tongue  with  ribaldry  fang 

Whene'er  thou  dost  converse. 

Think  ye  that  Darwin  lived  and  thought 

That  man  to  brute  return  ? 
That  thou  should  deem  thy  manhood  naught 

And  make  of  no  concern. 

Think  ye  that  Christ  was  crucified 

A  modern  oath  to  make  ? 
That  thou  should  act  as  though  He  died 

But  for  a  foul  oath's  sake. 

Think  ye  thy  spirit  hath  been  made 

In  image  of  the  Lord  ? 
That  thou  thy  soul  with  sin  degrade 

E'en  with  thy  soul's  accord. 


FRANCBS    BELMONT. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONA. 


BELMONT 

GARLAND 

COIyVIN 

HALE 

MAURICE,  nephew  to  Colvin   

KIRKWOOD,  son  to  Belmont 

LAMBERT 

FAIRFIELD 

FOOTE 

A  Lieutenant 

A  German 

A  Conductor  of  the  Cotillon 

A  Lawyer 

A  Reporter  

A  Clerk 

ERASMUS,  a  negro  youth 

MILDRED,  sister  to  Garland 

FRANCES,  daughter  to  Belmont 

BERNICE,  ward  to  Garland   

LAURA,  fiance  to  Maurice 

EDITH 

LUCRETIA,  a  negro  girl  in  Belmont 's  employ 

Members  of  Destiny  League,  Dancers,  Servants,  &c. 


Scene— SAN  FRANCISCO. 
66 


FRANCES  BELMONT, 


A  COMEDY. 


ACT  I. 

Scene  /. — A  lawn  before  Belrnont's  house. 
Enter  Frances. 

FRANCES.  — (Sings) 

Sail,  O  sail,  ye  ship  enthroned 

In  the  moon's  inverted  horn  ; 
And  ye  stars,  with  rnist  enzoned, 

Lend  thy  guiding  light  till  morn  : 
For  my  Love  is  on  the  deep,  on  the  deep, 
And  his  path  is  dark  and  steep,  dark  and  steep. 
Enter  Edith. 

O,  dear  heart,  give  me  some  comfort ;   my  brother  is 
coming  from  the  wars  and  there  is  storm  at  sea. 
EDITH. — A  soldier  must  be  content. 

67 


FRANCES. — You  were  not  born  for  pity,  yet  cannot 
you  lay  this  storm,  you  who  go  into  convention  quarterly 
with  the  millennium  in  your  portfolio  ? 

EDITH. — Have  you  concluded  to  become  a  member  of 
the  reform  league  ? 

FRANCES. — What,  to  kill  love  and  reform  men  !  Why, 
look  you,  what  an  illogical  thing  you  go  about  to  make 
your  friends  ;  you  would  have  us  kill  love  and  reform 
men.  What's  that  good  for?  why  should  we  reform 
men  if  it  be  not  to  love  them  more ;  to  make  them 
more  worthy,  that  we  love  them  more?  No,  as  the  at- 
tainment is  better  than  the  wish,  so  the  love  of  men  is 
better  than  their  reformation. 

EDITH. — Well,  if  you  have  a  stomach  for  the  milk  of 
love,  I  will  not  feed  you  on  the  meat  of  a  congress. 

FRANCES. — I  tell  you  what,  Edith,  you  may  feed  us 
on  the  meat  of  a  dozen  congresses,  yet  a  woman  's  a 
romantic  animal  for  a'  that,  and  when  a  soldier  steps  out 
of  her  ideal — a  soldier,  I  say — his  eyes  like  two  Epi- 
cureans at  Beauty's  banquet,  will  she  sigh  him  off?  No, 
not  Frances  Belrnont. 

EDITH. — Fie,  fie,  fie! 

FRANCES. — Ah  me,  Edith,  this  old  fashioned  love,  this 
love  of  Jack  for  Jill  and  Jill  for  Jack,  what  a  consummate 
working  basis  it  is. 

EDITH. — You  would  have  more  cause  to  mock  me  did 
some  man  anticipate  to  support  me  on  my  dower. 

FRANCES. — Get  you  a  lover,  Edith,  get  you  a  lover. 
Not  one  of  these  who  is  fallen  into  the  after  years  when 
love  is  friendship  and  friendship  's  sweet,  but  a  bachelor 

68 


ou  the  better  side  of  five  and  thirty;  a  soldier  who  will 
lead  you  a  forlorn  hope  'gainst  bachelorhood. 

EDITH. — And  when  I  have  him  shall  I  give  him  to  you  ? 

FRANCES. — Why,  there  you  have  the  whole  philosophy 
of  reformation  in  a  courtesy;  when  you  go  about  to  better 
others  you  but  undo  yourself.  O  abjure  it,  abjure  it. 
Besides,  it  confesses  an  overweening  presumption  to  run 
hither  and  thither  to  reform  the  world,  to  make  your 
likes  and  dislikes  the  true  level.  No,  no,  I  thank  God 
my  study  does  not  open  on  the  millennium;  yet,  I  am 
sure,  I  am  as  gentle  and  cherishing  as  most. 

EDITH. — I  may  yet  find  a  use  for  you. 

FRANCES. — Why  so  bitter?  defense  is  not  adherence. 
You  know  that  I  am  as  contrary  as  God  makes  'em,  that 
my  heart  is  with  you  though  my  tongue  is  not.  You 
know,  none  so  well  as  you,  that  I  am  pledged  to  kill  love 
and  reform  men;  and  that  I  may  better  accomplish  my 
pledge,  look  you,  I  have  gotten  me  a  lover  to  kill  love  in. 
I  am  the  last  woman  in  the  world  to  deal  with  an  ab- 
straction, but  the  first  to  cherish  a  working  basis. 

EDITH. — I  will  avoid  you  until  you  recover  the  con- 
sistency of  your  virtues.  [Exit. 
^FRANCES.— Ah,  nature^s  bosom^is  broad,  and  there js 
room  for  those  who  wrould  to  lie  back  and  rest.  If  I 
must  edify  the  universe,  "  rest "  shall  be  my  tenet  and  I 
will  edify  by  example — thus,  thus.  (Reclines  on  the  lawn) . 
Now,  come,  disciples. 

Enter  Belmont. 

BELMONT. — Frances,  wrhat  profit  you  here?  idle,  idle, 
idle. 

69 


FRANCES. — Sir,  I  am  here  like  Liberty,  enlightening 
the  world.  Rest  is  the  new  enlightment ;  not  that  per- 
fect rest  of  the  angels,  but  that  rest  of  these  who  are 
heirs-presumptive  to  the  angelhood  ;  and  when  all  rest, 
can  aught  of  evil  be  astir  ? 

BKLMONT. — I  gather  your  drift  from  the  company  you 
keep.  Attend,  your  brother  returns  to-morrow  and  I 
will  throw  our  home  open  to  his  officers.  The  time  is 
brief,  yet  they  shall  be  welcomed.  I  doubt  not  you  can 
find  employment.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. — 

O  brave,  my  soldier  's  coming  from  the  wars ; 
Yet  one  more  day  and  on  the  western  flood 
His  ship  is  limned  against  the  golden  sun, 
That  like  a  burnished  shield  rests  on  the  sea, 
And,  though  the  way  be  rough  and  overcast, 
When  home  is  near  can  joy  be  far  behind  ?     [Exit. 

Scene  2. — A  room  in  Garland's  house. 
Enter  Garland. 

GARLAND. — 

Now  has  the  plan  of  things  a  relish  in  it. 
Calamity  has  been  a  second  mother 
And  set  her  naked,  mewling,  in  the  lap 
Of  evil  time,  a  babe  to  influence. 
She  spurned  me  in  her  fortune  ;  in  her  ruin 
I  doubt  not  that  by  pressure  indirect 
Or  direct  I  can  kill  this  green  romance, 
Discovering  an  attentive  ear  in  her 
To  give  my  solicitations  precedence 
Over  that  young  braggadocio  from  the  wars. 
70 


I'll  break  with  her  either  to  be  my  wife 

Or  my  waged  clerk,  and  take  the  immediate  hour 

That  she  shall  come  to  some  decisive  terms 

Ere  this  green  sickness  is  arrived  in  port 

To  blast  the  issue. 

Enter  Bernice. 

Stay,  Miss  Hunter,  stay. 
The  minutes  of  my  wardship  are  most  told, 
But  not  that  over-wardship  of  my  pains 
Which  as  instruction  goes  along  with  you 
Unto  the  end. 

BKRNICE. —       I  thank  you  for  your  pains: 

Nor  this  green  heart  brooding  on  what  's  to  come 
Has  put  your  kindnesses  from  me. 

GARLAND.—       JTis  well. 

Your  father  died  and  left  his  child  to  me 
And  to  my  sister:  we  have  done  our  best. 
Had  he  but  left  this  lost  estate  to  me, 
You  had  no  cause  to  weep  his  death  again 
For  with  your  fortune  dies  your  father  twice. 
But  it  is  gone:  his  credit  slept  in  him 
Who  was  administrator,  and  'tis  trite 
When  credit  sleeps  some  never  wake. 

BERNICE.—       Ah,  sir, 

Of  recovery  I  entertain  no  hope. 

GARLAND. — 

Through  his  affairs  ran  the  estates  of  many. 
Will  you  not  raze  the  period  of  your  wardship 
And  seat  perpetuity  there  ? 

71 


BBRNICB.—       The  truth  is  cruel — 

I  weep  my  father  twice.     Yet  I  have  strength, 
Schooling  I  have;  yet  schooling  of  the  rich 
Whose  text  is  never  "  bread." 

GARLAND. —      Ay,  'tis  well  said. 

BERNICE.— 

Yet  I  will  learn  my  place  in  lowliness. 
Sir,  for  that  love  my  father  bore  to  you, 
And  for  that  love  you  bear  unto  his  name, 
Find  me  an  humble  place  among  your  clerks, 
Or  make  me  governess  unto  a  friend — 
Employment  which  I  can  the  better  fill — 
And  I  will  honor  you  as  him  I  mourn. 

GARLAND. — 

I  am  right  loath  the  daughter  of  my  friend, 
Nurtured  for  all  becomes  a  woman  most, 
Should  taste  the  brazen  dugs  of  charity. 

BERNICK. — The  poor  must  labor  for  their  daily  bread. 

GARLAND. — Give  ear  unto  my  suit ;  I'll  cherish  you — 

My  honored  wife. 

BERNICE. —       O  spare  me  this  distress  ! 
GARLAND. — My  waged  clerk. 
BERNICE.—        Accept  my  humble  thanks. 

GARLAND.— 

You  know  not  what  you  do,  yet  it  is  sealed. 
Your  thanks  shall  open  on  another  world 
Where  what  is  dear  is  cheap,  what  's  cheap  is  dear. 

[Exit. 

72 


BERNICE. — 

0  me  !  I  do  not  well  know  what  that  means  ; 
Yet  it  is  cruel,  for  'tis  poverty, 

And  what  is  poverty  but  woman  knows 
Since  she  has  not  the  liberty  of  men. 
But  yesterday  I  might  have  blest  the  poor 
By  what  I  gave  to  see  their  miseries 
Idly  rehearsed  upon  the  stage  ;  to-day 

1  kneel  to  them  for  place  to  lay  my  head.    {Exit. 


Scene  j. — A  lawn  before  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Kirkwood. 

KIRKWOOD. — This  is  a  great  thrusting  on  of  honor,  an 
illustrious  home-coming  !  I  am  neither  Lieutenant  nor 
Captain,  Major  nor  Colonel,  Brigadier  nor  General;  a 
simple  private  in  the  service  of  Washington  and  my 
Country  ;  yet  I  no  sooner  set  foot  on  the  mainland  but 
I  am  dubbed  "Colonel."  For  a  taste  of  coming  honors, 
the  water-front  calls  me  "  Colonel"  ;  I  drink  off  a  toast, 
and  there  is  "  Colonel"  at  the  bottom;  I  call  for  my 
change,  and  they  ring  up  "  Colonel"  ;  I  walk  along  the 
street,  and  the  boys  shout  "Colonel,"  while  the  band 
plays  * '  God  save  the  Colonels ' ' ;  the  very  dogs  bark 
"Colonel,"  and  the  kittens  mew  "Colonel."  Sure,  I 
was  born  an  American,  but  I  shall  die  a  "  Colonel." 

Enter  a  Reporter. 

REPORTER. — Well,  Colonel,  I  hear  your  company  is 
returned  from  the  war. 

73 


KIRKWOOD. — Will  you  do  it,  sir,  after  all  I  have 
failed  to  express  on  the  matter  ? 

REPORTER.— Which,  Colonel? 

KIRKWOOD. — By  that  note  book  and  pencil  in  your 
hand,  and  that  mild  yet  steadfast  eye,  I  take  it,  sir,  that 
you  are  a  reporter. 

REPORTER. — Faith,  you  must  give  me  some  notes  on 
the  war  from  a  private's  point  of  view.  I  have  inter- 
viewed your  Captain. 

KIRKWOOD. — What,  you  have  interviewed  my  Captain  ? 
REPORTER. — Ay,  and  his  first  and  second  Lieutenants. 
KIRKWOOD. — Have  you  the  interview  about  you  ? 
REPORTER. — I  have. 

KIRKWOOD. — Well,  sir,  a  private's  point  of  view  is  his 
captain's  point  of  view,  with  the  oaths  filled  in.  Do  you 
make  a  note  of  it  ? 

REPORTER. — Ha!  ha!  ha!  But  come,  just  a  head  or 
two;  I'll  do  the  rest. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  you  unmitigated  rascal,  have  you 
no  conscience  ?  have  you  no  feelings  ?  Here  I  am  returned 
from  the  war  after  a  dooms-day  service,  and  have  not  yet 
seen  my  own  sweetheart,  and  you  get  between  me  and  the 
blessed  sun  that  is  shining  on  her  and  will  have  an  inter- 
view. Go  to,  you  ass;  do  you  take  me  for  that  hitching 
post  you've  been  hunting?  [Exit. 

REPORTER. — Good,  good;  I  will  do  the  rest.      [Exit. 

74 


Enter  Belmont,  Hale%  Maurice,  Frances  and  Laura. 

BELMONT. — 

Be  as  my  sons  and  the  immediate  guests 

Of  my  revokeless  hospitality, 

Made  welcome  through  your  services  abroad. 

I  thought  to  entertain  your  sum  thrice  o'er, 

But  this  brave  company  is  broken  up 

To  honor  other  hearths  made  wide  withal 

To  cherish  our  thrice-honored  volunteers 

Who  helped  to  make  beseiged  Manila  stuff 

For  history. 
HALE. —  History  entertains  events  ; 

You  fought  at  Gettysburg,  we  before  the  guns 

Of  Dewey  at  Manila. 
BELMONT.—       The  State  that  finds  him  gray 

Shall  never  find  him  sleeping,  be  it  said. 

At  Gettysburg !  ay,  and  in  the  Wilderness  : 

From  that  first  trump  to  Lee  at  Appomatox, 

When  God  saw  the  Union  one  and  men  saw 't  twain. 

But  you  are  travel-worn  ;  come  in  and  rest. 

What  I  shall  lack  in  hospitality 

Make  that  my  oversight. 
MAURICE.—       For  my  own  part 

I  rather  tarry  on  this  pleasant  lawn. 
BELMONT. — But  what  o'  the  "  open  door"  ? 
FRANCES. —       Patience,  good  host, 

Well  have  that  too. 
BELMONT. —      Well,  tarry  here  awhile. 

At  least  I'll  serve  a  small  collation  'round 

Which  is  no  schism  to  discuss.     How  now, 

My  son  is  stolen  hence. 
75 


FRANCES.—       He  is  within. 
BELMONT. — 

I'll  set  him  in  my  eye.     Now,  by  my  soul, 
I  hold  that  blood  weaker  than  water  far 
That  cannot  climb  unto  its  head  and  source. 
I  rallied  thrice  at  Bull  Run,  and  this  lad — 
What  says  his  Captain  ?  what  his  brave  Lieutenant  ? 
Has  he  not  the  hand  behind  his  father's  sword? 
HALE.— 

The  bravest  of  his  years.     I  know  not  why, 
Yet  he  did  laugh  through  Aguinaldo's  wars 
As  though  he  caught  from  Death  an  unstaled  jest 
And  gave  it  back  unto  the  mirthful  gods 
From  ribs  of  steel. 
BELMONT. —      I  see  him  in  his  copes. 

How  !  you  amaze  me :     I  will  question  him, 

And  even  when  I  find  this  shrewd  conceit 

I'll  break  to  him  brave  news.     Stay  for  my  pains. 

[£*#. 

FRANCES. — Was  it  such  brave  laughter,  Captain  Hale? 
Surely,  my  brother  must  have  studied  your  tactics  against 
that  politic  Aguinaldo,  and  endeavored  to  laugh  all  the 
lines  of  your  retreat  into  his  face. 

HALE. — If  your  brother  has  got  any  lines  of  my  retreat 
into  his  face,  his  face  is  a  very  honorable  map  of  the  field 
before  Manila,  for  my  retreat  was  forward  on  the  enemy. 
And  do  you  still  make  a  study  of  tactics,  Miss  Belmont  ? 
FRANCES. — I  do  sometimes  affect  tactics,  for  it  argues 
there  is  a  captain  at  my  heels. 

MAURICE. — (Saluting  Hale) — Can  you  storm  that 
trench,  Captain  ? 

76 


HALE. — Faith,  I  can  do  it — alone. 

FRANCES. — It  is  better  you  attempt  it  alone  than  in  the 
presence  of  others,  for  others  will  see  the  shame  of  your 
defeat;  there  being  no  shame  in  you  when  alone. 

HALE. — There  you  do  me  wrong:  I  have  been  ashamed 
alone  in  your  company  more  times  than  it  were  good  to 
publish. 

FRANCES. — Ay,  I  am  sure  I  have  made  you  ashamed 
before. 

MAURICE. —  {Saluting  Hale) — Have  a  care  of  the 
out-posts,  Captain. 

HALE. — Tut,  Lieutenant,  these  outposts  are  all  there  is 
of  some  enemies;  there  's  nothing  behind. 

FRANCES. — True,  there  is  nothing  behind.  You  had 
better  give  in  your  epaulet ;  you  cannot  occupy  nothing. 

HALE. — Well,  I  have  my  welcome  and  I  know  how  to 
take  it. 

Enter  Servants,  etc.:  a  collation  served  upon  the  lawn. 

FRANCES. — Sir,  know  your  welcome. 

HALE. — This,  I  take  it,  is  my  welcome,  as  though  I  am 
sensible  only  in  the  palate. 

FRANCES. — I  am  sure  you  are  sensible  elsewhere,  for  I 
have  made  you  ache  elsewhere  than  in  the  palate. 

LAURA. — This  is  a  very  ungentle  way  to  receive  an  old 
friend.  I  thought  better  of  you,  Frances. 

HALE. — Do  not  misjudge  her,  Miss  Osborne ;  a 
woman  always  commits  the  unexpected. 

FRANCES. — Does  she  so?  And  what  does  a  man 
commit  ? 

HALE. — The  expected,  I  presume. 

77 


FRANCES. — Right :  now  we  shall  hear  some  fantas- 
tical bragging  from  Captain  Hale. 

MAURICE. — I  advise  you  to  withdraw  into  your  ap- 
petite, Philip.  Do  you  not  often  come  to  the  end  of  your 
wit,  Miss  Belmont  ? 

FRANCES. — I  grant  you  my  slings  are  as  brief  as  this 
war — the  enemy  is  soon  used  up. 

MAURICE. — I  will  hold  amity  with  you  until  we  come 
to  a  balance  of  wit. 

FRANCES. — You  do  well,  sir,  you  do  well. 
Enter  Belmont. 

Father,  can  you  draw  out  these  gentlemen  to  some 
report  of  their  valor,  some  hint  of  hardihood  ?  Is  it  not 
written  against  the  soldier,  "  he  came,  he  spoke,  he  over- 
came ' '  ?  yet  here  we  have  a  pair  of  them  who  bear  about 
their  honors  like  a  clasped  book  wherein  none  may  have 
a  look. 

BELMONT. — Perhaps  what  is  written  therein  is  too 
painful  for  your  perusal :  war  is  not  writ  in  water. 

FRANCES. — I  have  read  the  book  of  the  Civil  War  by 
the  light  of  a  veteran's  eyes  :  I  am  sure  the  book  of 
Captain  Hale's  honor  will  be  a  b  c  to  me  ;  a  kind  of 
picture  book. 

BELMONT. — True,  to  each  man  there  is  a  subject  that 
always  finds  him  young  and  half  a  braggart,  and  I  have, 
gentlemen,  I  confess,  spoke  more  of  war  to  my  daughter 
than  I  should,  but  age  having  not  the  privilege  of 
action  falls  back  on  speech,  like  a  stricken  soldier  taken 
from  the  field  to  guard  a  garrison. 

FRANCES. — This  garrison  will  never  lack  soldiers. 

78 


BELMONT. — Does  she  welcome  you  thus,  gentlemen  ? 

HALE. — She  has  discussed  me  like  a  new  dish. 

FRANCES. — You  must  pardon  me,  gentlemen ;  I  do  but 
endeavor  to  entertain,  and  what  is  entertainment  but 
communion,  and  communion  must  be  passing  witty,  and 
wit  cannot  but  find  its  billet.  You  are  not  women  that  I 
may  entertain  you  with  my  clothes ;  you  are  men  ;  I  must 
entertain  with  my  tongue.  But,  I  pray  you,  tell  me  of 
your  skirmishes — how  many  honorable  scars  do  you  bear 
between  you  ? 

LAURA. — Lieutenant  Colvin  was  wounded  three  times. 

FRANCES. — Why,  I  am  sorry  for  the  gentleman. 

LAURA. — And  Captain  Hale  was  twice  severely 
wounded. 

FRANCES. — O  Lord,  the  gentleman  has  been  laboring 
in  his  vocation.  Of  course  you  suffered  a  day  or  two, 
Captain  Hale  ? 

HAI/E. — The  fever  is  the  worst  part  of  a  wound  near 
the  Line,  Miss  Belrnont. 

FRANCES. — A  fever!  why,  this  is  slightly  interesting. 
But,  I  dare  say,  you  had  some  one  to  nurse  you  ? 

HAI/E. — I  was  even  so  fortunate,  Miss  Belmont;  a  field 
nurse  to  whom  I  am  greatly  beholden.  O,  the  most 
patient,  the  most  cherishing,  the  sweetest  spirit  that  ever 
ministered  to  the  stricken. 

FRANCES. — And  was  this  field  nurse  a  man  or  a  woman  ? 

BEI^MONT. — Such  was  your  mother,  Frances;  and  the 
face  of  her  child  is  still  turned  to  the  field.  You  have 
her  look  and  her  courage,  but  whence  you  got  that  bitter 
tongue  I  am  to  learn.  You  did  not  get  it  of  your  mother, 

79 


neither  of  your  father;  it  may  be  you  got  it  of  your 
father's  father. 

FRANCES. — I  can  well  believe  that,  sir;  'tis  said  the 
good  things  of  inheritance  always  jump  a  generation. 

BELMONT. — Go  to,  go  to:  take  them  in,  and  let  Miss 
Osborne  do  the  talking  henceforth,  whom  you  have  scan- 
dalized into  dumbness.  Hither  comes  my  son:  I  will 
break  some  welcome  news  to  him  and  be  with  you 
straight.  Take  them  in. 

FRANCES. — Then  come,  gentlemen ;  you  are  to  tarry 
under  my  father's  roof  as  his  guests  and  I  am  called  upon 
to  make  you  welcome.  I  say  you  are  welcome,  but,  our 
home  being  in  a  city  and  not  in  the  country,  I  may  not 
say  welcome  to  Laurelhill,  or  Elmwood,  or  Cottage  Grove, 
or  some  like  familiar  yet  delightful  name :  I  must  wel- 
come you  to  a  vile  number  on  such  and  such  a  street. 
Nevertheless,  God  made  the  city  last,  and  in  that  philoso- 
phy we  will  take  his  works.  [Exeunt  all  but  Belmont. 

Enter  Kirkwood. 

BELMONT. — 

Stay,  sir,  I  have  some  welcome  news  to  break, 

With  which  congratulation  goes  along; 

Yet  oft  we  see  congratulations  have 

A  soul  of  unkindness. 
KIRKWOOD. —       Yet  let  me  hear. 
BELMONT. — 

Your  aunt,  whom  you  have  never  looked  upon 

With  that  discerning  eye  of  interest 

When  kindred  looks  on  kindred, — why,  she  's  dead. 
KIRKWOOD. — I'm  grieved  to  hear  it,  sir. 
BELMONT. —         I'm  glad  of  that; 

80 


Great  heirs  are  not  deep  mourners. 

KIRKWOOD. —       What,  her  heir  ? 

BELMONT. — 

The  moiety  of  her  estate  is  yours: 

Frances  inherits  in  equality. 

I  would  a  wife  had  been  conjoin tal  here. 

KIRKWOOD. — I'll  think  o'  that. 

BELMONT. —          This  counsel  goes  along: 
Have  solicitude  your  fortune  is  your  fortune 
And  not  your  misfortune.     Still  use  it  well; 
Its  largeness  lies  in  you  not  in  itself: 
Speak  for  yourself,  your  fortune  not  for  you: 
Where  you  would  not  be  seen  let  it  not  go, 
And  go  before,  the  master  not  the  man: 
Make  it  your  glasses,  not  your  eyes:  in  brief, 
Though  it  may  feed  you  make  it  not  your  flesh, 
And  if  increased  let  no  man  be  the  poorer. 
This  is  the  word;  the  spirit  lies  with  you; 
If  joined  you  have  a  fortune  indeed,  if  not 
Naught  will  suffice  and  poverty  will  grow 
With  increase  of  gold. 

KIRKWOOD. —       Sir,  I  will  do  my  best. 

BELMONT. — Take  heed  of  that.  [Exit. 

KIRKWOOD. —       I  need  to  work  no  more, 

So  think  how  much  it  is  I  now  can  do.  [Exti. 

Scene  4. — A  lawn  before  Garland's  house. 

Enter  Garland  and  Mildred. 
MILDRED. — 

Yet,  brother,  bear  in  mind  your  heavy  debt 
Unto  her  father:  let  your  gratitude 

81 


To  him  who  was  the  founder  of  your  wealth 
Drop  blessings  on  his  child,  his  cherished  child. 
You  have  a  face  in  heaven;  let  it  shine 
With  gentle  deeds. 

GARLAND. —          Still  contending  there 

Where  concurrence  and  respect  would  earlier  win 

The  good  of  your  endeavor.     She  is  poor, 

And  poverty  's  abiding  in  the  sex 

When  beauty  has  not  gone  along  with  grace: 

And  you,  who  cannot  reason,  should  obey. 

He  best  serves  poverty  who  makes  a  way 

For  labor  followed  by  due  recompense; — 

I  give  her  tools  and  you  would  blunt  their  edge 

With  idleness  begot  of  dreams  and  hopes. 

The  poor  cannot  afford  to  look  before 

Nor  after;  there  's  no  bread  in  retrospection, 

Nor  can  this  poverty  feed  on  its  hopes, 

But  rather  lets  the  little  fall  in  reach 

At  fleeting  largeness,  like  the  crystal  merchant 

Who  breaks  his  vases  spurning  from  his  dream 

At  lowliness. 

MILDRED. —          'Tis  a  debt  of  sympathy 
To  set  aside  some  portion  of  your  wealth 
For  your  sweet  ward:  a  gentle  spirit  who 
Has  husbanded  much  above  needs  little  here. 

GARLAND. — 

I'm  blunt,  yet  in  my  bluntness  is  this  soul 
Of  truth:  who  gives  a  woman  tools  and  work 
Most  cherishes  her  honor. 

82 


MILDRED. —          Yet  I  do  fear 

You  lead  your  ward  upon  this  stony  field, 
Not  to  enharden  her  against  a  worse 
But  that  she  bleed  and  yield  her  freedom  up 
Into  your  unwished  keeping,  making  your  knowledge 
Of  the  world's  inhumanity  a  knowledge  of  sin. 
If  you  will  know  the  world  demoralized — 
For  so  you  still  assert  it  in  your  speech — 
The  world  will  end  by  knowing  you  of  shame; 
For  those  who  know  the  world  is  wholly  bad 
Still  end  by  making  it  excuse  for  sin. 
Yet  I  do  think  their  hearts  are  half  corrupt 
And  cannot  see  the  good,  and  being  bad 
Do  fall  in  their  own  evil. 
GARLAND. —         I'm  not  cruel, 
I  herein  do  but  reason  differently; 
And  though  wTe  change  our  reasons  oft  again 
'Tis  reason  still,  swaying  for  good  or  bad. 
I  must  act  by  reason. 
MILDRED. —          Our  charities  cherish  us 

When  our  reasons  prove  ineffectual. 
GARLAND. — I  cannot  set  aside  reason  that  it  may  prove 
impotent  in  the  end.  I  say  I  must  act  by  reason  and 
train  my  ward  to  be  able  to  contend  against  the  world 
that  she  not  come  to  misfortune.  A  woman  choosing  be- 
tween two  misfortunes  is  a  woman  choosing  between 
two  sins,  for  if  honor  contend  with  bread,  bread  will  be 
victorious.  If  I  build  without  nature  I  build  without 
God.  I  battle  under  the  same  shield  as  you;  this  is  the 
other  side.  Bernice  must  to  work.  [Exit. 

MILDRED. — I  fear  he  carries  the  fire  of  knowledge  but 
to  burn  himself  in  the  end.  [Exit. 

83 


Enter  Kirkwood  and  Bernice. 

KIRKWOOD. — But,  dear  heart,  do  not  harp  on  the  loss 
of  your  estate;  you  are  twice  dowered,  dowered  in  your 
love  and  your  misfortune. 

BERNICE. — Yet  I  fear,  since  I  am  thrown  on  charity, 
you  cannot  win  your  father's  approval  to  our  marriage. 

KIRKWOOD. — Am  I  not  came  of  age  ?  am  I  not  indepen- 
dent? Faith,  my  father's  approval  is  now  a  jewel  more 
of  grace  than  of  necessity.  Besides,  he  wished  a  wife  was 
conjointal  with  this  inheritance  from  my  aunt,  and,  by 
my  honor,  dear  heart,  when  I  remember  all  his  kindnesses 
to  me,  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  disappoint  him. 

BERNICE. — I  will  not  estrange  your  father  from  you. 
Let  me  go  my  way:  I  will  learn  to  labor  and  my  labor 
will  teach  me  to  forget. 

KIRKWOOD. — Let  me  not  break  this  gall  beneath  my 
tongue.  I  will  kiss  you.  Love  is  fairer  than  he  is 
painted:  I  will  paint  him  again;  he  shall  have  your  eyes; 
he  shall  have  my  heart.  A  plague  upon  your  guardian: 
I  will  charter  a  launch  and  our  Gretna  Green  shall  be 
upon  the  sea. 

BERNICE. — If  you  love  me  still,  I  will  patiently  wait 
until  I  come  of  age  and  can  honorably  marry. 

KIRKWOOD. — O  do  not  pause:  if  your  guardian  say 
aught  against  our  marriage,  get  you  a  new  guardian. 

BERNICE. — For  the  love  I  bear  his  sister,  who  has  been 
as  a  mother  to  me,  I  will  not  dishonor  him;  rather  wisely 
endure  his  lease. 

KIRKWOOD. — Seven  months!  Where  can  I  find 
patience?  not  in  your  company,  surely;  not  out  of  your 

84 


company,  surely:  there  is  no  third  way.  Yet,  for  your 
sake,  I  will  cherish  the  delay  with  a  brave  heart,  and  in 
the  interim  labor  to  approve  that  flaw  in  your  nativity. 
You  seem  to  me  just  the  right  age  to  marry,  and  I  have 
an  excellent  hymeneal  judgment. 

BERNICE. — I  would  not  labor  in  the  hint;  you  will  vex 
my  guardian. 

KIRKWOOD. — If  your  guardian  has  confounded  your 
age  with  that  of  your  dead  sister,  and  you  are  the  eldest, 
I  would  like  nothing  better.  I  will  secretly  unfold  the 
matter  to  my  lawyer,  and  though  he  seize  on  my  inherit- 
ance for  recompense,  he  is  a  good  hearted  fellow  and  I 
have  no  doubt  will  pension  me  when  I  am  married. 

BERNICE. — I  will  leave  you  now  that  I  do  not  offend 
my  guardian,  although  your  presence  is  very  dear  to  me. 

[Exit. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  would  she  were  not  so  proud;  she  has 
given  her  very  jewels  to  satisfy  her  creditors  and  will 
suffer  no  aid  from  her  friends  and  least  from  me.  Yet 
for  a'  that  I  must  be  politic  and  shield  her  from  the  offices 
of  her  guardian:  business  is  a  dog  in  association.  I  ha't: 
this  war  with  Spain  and  our  flag  in  the  orient  will  bring 
the  West  in  touch  with  the  East  and  open  that  old  and 
eternal  question  of  destiny,  that  question  whether  a  man 
must  needs  be  what  he  is,  or  something  else,  or  no  such 
thing.  I  will  found  a  fin-de-siecle  destiny  league,  and 
secretly,  on  my  inheritance,  have  Bernice  appointed  its 
salaried  secretary  for  seven  months  and  a  day.  Yet  how 
is  it  possible  I  found  a  destiny  league,  well  knowing  I  am 
too  liberal  to  found  a  liberalist  league?  But  what  o'  that; 
courage:  did  not  Archimedes  the  Greek,  that  old  man 

85 


analytic,  ask  for  a  woman  that  he  move  creation  ?  and  if 
I  cannot  found  a  fin-de-siecle  destiny  league  with  the  aid 
of  Edith  Prescott,  why  then  I'm  something  else.  [Exit. 

Scene  5. — A  room. 

Enter  Colvin  and  Maurice. 
COLVIN. — 

I  shall  return  within  these  seven  days: 

I  tarty  but  some  moments  for  my  train. 

You  are  a  guest — to  whom  ? 
MAURICE. —          General  Belmont. 
COLVIN. — 

Belmont !  that  name  is  very  full  to  me, 

A  date  whereon  still  hangs  my  wildest  year. 

Is  he  of  Richmond  in  Virginia  ? 
MAURICE. — I  know  not,  sir:  I  can  enquire  so  far. 
COLVIN. — What  is  his  given  name? 
MAURICE. —          Nor  know  I  that. 
COLVIN. — How  old  is  he  ? 
MAURICE. —          Some  sixty  years,  I  judge. 

Gray  eyes,  steep  forehead;  has  the  roman  nose. 

But  yet  a  face  is  but  a  face  to  me, 

Unless  it  be  a  woman's  worth  the  mark. 
COLVIN. — 

I  would  be  certain  ere  I  speak  with  him. 

Look  in  this  album  ;  mark  this  daguerreotype  : 
(Opening  an  album  on  table] 

This  was  a  Belmont  forty  years  ago. 

I  quarrelled  with  him  before  the  Civil  War 

Upon  the  issue,  and  in  heated  blood, 

86 


When  wild  offense  had  passed  upon  both  sides 

Disrupting  our  endeared  companionship, 

I  challenged  him  upon  the  heated  field. 

He  leaped  upon  me,  and  my  weapon  drawn 

Exploded,  piercing  me  unto  the  brain. 

The  day  before  he  boasted  in  my  fall, 

And,  thinking  I  was  killed,  he  fled  the  State, 

Pursued  for  murder,  which  was  thrust  on  him 

By  my  companion  :  yet  I  did  not  die  ; 

And  deeds  of  darkness  work  out  deeds  of  light 

I  cleared  my  honor  growing  rank  with  weeds  ; 

But  he,  poor  friend,  was  never  heard  of  more, 

And  lives,  perhaps,  to  look  behind  at  death 

And  forward  to  some  dread  decree  of  law. 

MAURICE. — I  never  knew  of  this. 

CoiyViN. —  You  know  it  now 

In  that  you  make  discovery  of  him, 
Since  naught  's  impossible  that  's  reasonable. 
Learn  what  you  can  against  my  coming  home. 
I  would  have  pardon  for  the  wrong  I  did, 
And  pardon  him  for  his  enlarged  offense. 
Evil  still  falls  so  thick  when  't  can  be  razed 
I  would  not  pause. 

MAURICE. —          Perhaps  he  learned  by  mail 
Or  by  some  paper  that  you  did  not  die. 

COLVIN. — 

I  did  make  good  his  innocence  abroad, 
And  yet  he  left  a  fair  estate  behind 
That  came  into  the  treasury  of  the  State, 
Which  makes  me  doubt. 

87 


MAURICE. —          I'll  do  my  best  in  this, 
Though  'tis  unreasonable  this  thing  should  be. 

COLVIN. — 

Thanks,  Maurice,  thanks ;  yet  till  you  are  assured 
Speak  nothing.     Take  my  hand  in  your  return  : 
The  war  is  over  and  I  have  you  back. 
My  time  is  not  my  own  or  it  were  yours. 
Farewell. 

MAURICE. —       Be  generous  to  yourself ;  adieu. 
If  there  is  aught  in  this  heredity—       \.Exit  Colvin. 
And  he  who  doubts  that  doubts  his  very  doubts — 
This  picture  should  be  Belniont's:  'tis  so  like  Kirk. 
I  will  discover  if  he  is  the  man 
Then  wait  upon  my  uncle  with  the  proofs. 
Meantime  I'll  return  into  his  daughter's  sight 
And  mark  her  voice  i'  the  dark,  her  smile  i'  the  light. 

{Exit. 


ACT  II. 

Scene  /.*— A  lawn  before  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Hale,  Maurice,  Frances  and  Kirkwood. 

FRANCES. — Indeed,  Lieutenant  Colvin,  I  wonder  you 
do  not  weary  of  questioning  me  of  my  father  in  the  Civil 
War  :  yet  I  would  not  wonder  should  your  questions  be 
in  the  mouth  of  Captain  Hale. 

MAURICE. — Do  my  questions  weary  you  ?  I  was  born 
to  do  offense. 

FRANCES. — O,  no,  no,  no :  I  mean  your  questions 
would  more  become  Captain  Hale. 

HALE. — How  may  that  be,  Miss  Belmont?  I  am 
curious  to  discover. 

FRANCES. — Why,  sir,  should  you  question  me  of  the 
Civil  War,  I  would  think  you  were  eager  to  learn  what 
a  war  is  like. 

HALE. — This !  when  I  have  not  yet  shaken  the  dust  of 
active  service  from  me. 

FRANCES. — Ay,  for  a  dusty  captain,  God  warrant; 
there  is  no  quiet  breathing  in  your  presence. 

HALE. — I  will  retire  for  a  smoke  ;  'tis  health  and 
society  to  me. 

FRANCES. — Do  not,  I  beg  you.  I  know  many  could 
abide  my  conversation  were  it  not  for  my  words  :  yet  do 
not  retire  ;  I  have  a  favor  to  ask. 

HALE. — What,  will  you  have  me  to  laugh  when  you 
are  witty  ? 

FRANCES. — No,  thanks  :  I  know  when  I  am  witty  by 
your  writhing.  Will  you  not  fetch  me  from  the  library 
my  album  of  the  Rebellion. 

89 


HALE. — I  will  take  it  upon  me  only  that  I  may  get  my 
pipe.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. — From  our  conversation,  you  must  presume, 
Lieutenant,  that  Captain  Hale  and  I  are  old  friends  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — A  stranger  might  presume  from  your 
conversation  that  you  are  older  enemies. 

FRANCES. — Do  not  think  that.  I  will  tell  you  why  I 
am  so  filed  with  him.  I  did  once  say  I  had  a  good  wit : 
"True,"  said  he,  "  and  like  the  good  it  will  die  early/' 
"No,"  said  I,  "it  will  flourish  like  the  wicked:" 
" Right,"  said  he,  "till  it  is  as  dry  as  summer  dust." 
"  Ay,"  said  I,  "and  you  will  lay  that  summer  dust  with 
your  tears."  And  I  took  it  upon  me  to  make  that  good, 
and  have — 

MAURICE. — Succeeded. 

FRANCES. — You  are  dry,  sir,  you  are  dry.  Is  my  wit 
as  "  dry  as  summer  dust "  ? 

MAURICE. — I  see  you  can  lead  me  whither  you  choose. 

FRANCES. — I  yet  will  lead  you  to  no  confusion.  Here 
he  comes  :  you  shall  mark  the  daguerreotype  of  my  father: 
you  are  a  good  judge  ;  when  he  was  my  brother's  age 
he  was  very  like  Kirk. 

Re-enter  Hale  (with  album}. 

HALE. — What  have  I  for  my  pains,  Miss  Belmont  ? 
FRANCES. — Your   pipe,  sir,   your  pipe.     This   is  the 
daguerreotype,  Lieutenant. 
MAURICE. — This  ? 
FRANCES. — Even  this. 
MAURICE. — Let  me  see. 
FRANCES.— Is  it  not  like  my  brother? 

90 


MAURICE. — The  very  same. 

KIRKWOOD. — Yes,  my  father  bears  a  strong  resem- 
blance to  me. 

MAURICE. — (Aside.)  'Tis  so:  this  is  the  Belmont  who 
wounded  my  uncle. 

FRANCES. — If,  by  his  matured  features,  you  can  tell 
how  my  father  looked  as  a  youth,  perchance,  Lieutenant, 
by  my  salad  days,  you  can  tell  how  I  will  look  when  a 
grand-dame  ? 

MAURICE. — I  cannot  tell,  Miss  Belmont. 

HALE. — Colvin,  remember  our  appointment:  there  's 
no  grace  but  disgrace.  Miss  Belmont,  adieu. 

MAURICE. — I  attend.  Miss  Belmont,  good  day. 

FRANCES. — Gentlemen,  I  release  you. 

MAURICE. — (Aside. ) 

When  we  shall  meet  again,  one  meets  to  sin: 
My  thoughts  have  crossed,  my  spirit  enters  in. 

[Exeunt  Hale  and  Maurice. 

KIRKWOOD. — 

Frances,  are  you  aware  you  are  beloved 
By  one  whom  Fortune  has  gone  far  to  find, 
And  found  him  in  the  services  of  Honor  ? 

FRANCES. — And  who  is  this  ? 

KIRKWOOD. —       Why,  Philip  Hale. 

FRANCES. — Is  't  possible  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — 

If  you  should  love  the  gentleman,  in  truth, 
Cherish  your  silence  and  your  sweet  reserve; 
Make  not  familiarity  the  rift 
Within  the  lute  where  harmony  would  swell: 
Rather  smile  at  others  than  make  others  smile, 

9* 


For  men  still  mark  the  witty  of  the  sex 
But  sue  the  reserved:  and,  if  you  should  love, 
Think  not  proposal  lies  within  the  man, 
For  maidens  woo  even  as  roses  woo — 
But  let  the  bud  be  sweet  and  men  will  smell. 
FRANCES. — 

What  philosophy  have  you  dreamed  to  wake  so  wise 
What  rose  have  you  just  smelt  that  was  so  sweet  ? 
What  lute  have  you  been  playing  in  the  dark  ? 
Away,  I'll  show  a  lover  but  the  bad — 
A  maid  can  do  on  that  until  she  's  wed — 
And  then  the  good  is  nothing  flat  nor  stale: 
Which  is  my  project  though  my  project  fail. 

Enter  Belmont. 

BELMONT. — Know  you  Lieut.  Colvin's  place  of  birth? 

FRANCES. — I  know  not,  sir.     He  sought  to  know  of 

[yours. 

BELMONT.— He  did  ? 

FRANCES. —  Indeed,  he  fought  your  battles  o'er. 

KIRKWOOD. — 

He  has  a  gift  peculiar:  mark  you,  sir: 
He  said  about  my  age  you  had  my  look — 
For  he  has  made  a  study  of  these  things — 
The  forehead  and  the  eyes  and  in  the  chin, 
Although  your  beard  might  well  confuse  that  last ; 
All  which  this  daguerreotype  does  well  approve. 
Yet  how  he  shrunk  your  face  to  twTenty-three 
And  got  the  likeness  I  am  still  to  learn. 

BELMONT. — What,  has  he  seen  this  daguerreotype? 

KIRKWOOD. —       He  has. 

92 


BEUMONT. — How  did  he  come  by  it? 

FRANCES. —          He  would  approve 

His  judgment,  and  in  issue  begged  of  me 
Some  likeness  of  your  youth.     'Tis  all  we  have. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why  do  you  ask? 

BEUVIONT. —          Attend,  and  know  so  far. 
His  name  is  troubled  waters  still  to  me, 
Which  I  have  yet  to  cross,  or  do  I  dream  ? 
My  past  is  filled  with  regret  yet  not  with  sin, 
Sin  more  than  anger  at  my  dearest  friend. 
I  loved  my  country  more  than  brotherhood, — 
Or  did  I  make  my  country  but  my  pride 
And  love  my  pride  ?  was  I  not  still  the  fool 
Of  patriotism  that  I  suffered  thus  ? 
Yet  know,  my  anger  crossed  with  circumstance 
Did  hedge  me  in  with  the  condemning  law, 
And  should  Lieutenant  Colvin  be  of  kin 
To  him  'gainst  whom  I  scorned,  and  know  my  past 
In  its  inversion,  then,  should  he  but  act, 
Though  innocent,  in  the  great  hand  of  law  I  stand 
To  render  an  account  for  the  thoughts  of  men. 

FRANCES. — Alas,  what  have  I  done  ! 

BELMONT. —          No  harm,  no  harm. 
This  cruel  wound  cannot  live  after  me 
And  bleed  within  my  issue.     Call  't  a  dream 
Until  we  wake  ;  yet  heedful  in  our  dream 
Give  waking  no  offense.     Then  come  your  ways. 


93 


Scene  2. — The  same. 
Enter  Lucretia  and  Erasmus. 

LUCRETIA. — Do  you  specify  that  as  a  holiday  when 
the  nebulous  star  has  passed  the  meridian  ?  That  should 
be  designated  as  a  semi-holiday. 

ERASMUS. — You  know  too  much  for  a  colored  orphan. 

LUCRETIA. — If  my  progenitors  are  demised,  your  pro- 
genitor is  no  better  than  a  medicine  bottle  :  and  if  I  walk 
out  of  service,  sir,  it  will  be  on  lexicons  and  books  and 
not  on  gin  flasks. 

ERASMUS. — Who  is  that  white  soldier  I  saw  you  kissing 
his  picture  in  the  pantry  ? 

LUCRETIA. — That  is  my  paramour. 

ERASMUS. — Has  he  ever  seen  your  face  ? 

LUCRETIA. — lie  has  seen  my  mind. 

ERASMUS. — Does  he  know  you  are  black? 

LUCRETIA. — Love  is  blind. 

ERASMUS. — Did  he  answer  that  love-letter  you  tucked 
in  that  jelly  you  sent  the  volunteers  at  the  Philippines? 

LUCRETIA.- — Go  off:  leave  me  to  consider  the  lilies. 
[Exit  Erasmus.    Lucretia  retires 
to  the  summer  house  on  the  lawn. 

Enter  Kirkwood  and  Lambert  severally. 

KIRKWOOD. — O  Lord,  here  comes  Lambert  who  made 
me  laugh  myself  into  a  fever  at  Negros. 

LAMBERT. — Did  you  hand  Lucretia  that  box  of  choco- 
ates,  Kirk? 

KIRKWOOD. — I  did. 

LAMBERT. — And  the  lilies  and  the  violets  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Ay. 

94 


LAMBERT. — And  the  letter  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — True. 

LAMBERT. — How  did  she  take  the  letter  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  man,  if  her  eyes  danced  at  the 
superscription,  doubt  not  that  her  heart  danced  at  the 
context. 

LAMBERT. — I  must  see  her  face.  She  has  never  sent 
me  her  photograph,  though  I  have  begged  her  to  do  so, 
and  have  sent  her  a  dozen  of  mine.  Is  she  as  ravishing 
as  you  say  ?  What,  is  she  at  home  now  ?  give  me  a 
secret  glimpse  of  her. 

KIRKWOOD. — Hush,  speak  low.  Do  you  mark  yon 
little  full-blooded  negro  wench  in  the  summer  house  ? 

LAMBERT. — Ay. 

KIRKWOOD. — She  's  as  bright  as  a  dollar  in  ebony  and 
tattles.  If  she  should  hear  you  or  you  should  make  her 
a  go-between  between  Lucretia  and  yourself,  you  will 
lose  your  hopes,  for  she  will  tattle  to  Lucre tia's  guar- 
dian, who,  as  I  said,  is  our  housekeeper. 

LAMBERT. — Mum. 

KIRKWOOD. — You  must  not  meet  Lucretia  yet ;  you 
are  too  lean.  You  must  get  in  flesh  :  a  week  and  you 
are  all  peach  and  cream.  Yet  I  will  give  you  a  moonlit 
balcony  view  of  Lucretia,  an'  you  will. 

LAMBERT. — A  moonlit  balcony,  smothered  in  roses  and 
jasmine  !  Can  a  man  be  heir  to  such  joy  ! 

KIRKWOOD. — But,  Lambert,  Lambert,  she  will  con- 
verse with  you,  too,  and  sing  you  some  marvelous  rich 
words  of  love. 

LAMBERT. — Jove,  I  will  elope  with  her  from  the 
balcony. 

95 


KIRKWOOD. — Not  till  the  second  night:  we  must  be 
sly,  peculiarly  sly.  Away!  keep  to  your  rooms:  I  will 
come  to  you  this  evening  with  some  exquisite  love 
speeches.  Away ! 

LAMBERT. — I  will  wear  a  uniform  :  I  will  have  my 
mustache  waxed:  I  will  bring  violets  to  cast  at  her  feet. 
Tell  her  I  send  her  a  hundred  kisses. 

KIRKWOOD. — Away  ! 

LAMBERT. — If  you  love  me,  don't  disappoint  me,  Kirk. 

[Exit. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  fear  you,  Lambert:  for  all  your  senti- 
ments, I  fear  you  would  play  this  trusting  lady  false,  and 
therefore  I  will  not  unveil  Lucretia  to  you  until  I  have 
made  an  example  of  you — and  an  ass.  Come  hither, 
Lucretia. 

Lucretia  comes  forward. 

Do  you  know,  Lucretia,  when  I  was  in  camp  on  the 
Philippine  Island,  that  many  of  the  soldiers  received  love- 
letters  in  their  Christmas  parcels  from  young  ladies  to 
whom  they  were  strangers?  that  some  of  these  soldiers 
corresponded  and  received  letters  of  love  in  return  ?  that 
since  my  company  has  got  its  discharge,  several  of  these 
same  soldiers  have  searched  out  their  fair  correspondent, 
still  blushing  through  their  love  missiles,  and  that  to- 
night I  attend  the  nuptial  of  one  of  these  fortunate  fellows 
with  his  sweet  correspondent  ? 

LUCRETIA. — La,  how  romantic. 

KIRKWOOD. — Did  you  mark  the  soldier  with  whom  I 
have  been  conversing  ? 

LUCRETIA. — Is  he  the  gentleman  ? 

96 


KIRKWOOD. — No,  not  exactly,  L,ucretia.  But  do  you 
know  he  received  a  letter  with  the  rest  and  corresponded, 
receiving  many  letters  of  love  and  esteem  but  never  a 
photograph  of  his  lady-love,  although  he  sent  her  a 
lover's  dozen  of  his  own?  that  he  has  come  to  see  his 
love  and  claim  her  if  she  is  fair  ?  that  she  lives  here,  even 
here?  that  her  name  is  L,ucretia  Floyd  ? 

LUCRETIA. — I  never  did  it,  sir;  I  never  did  it. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why  look  you,  Miss  Lucretia  Floyd,  we 
know  your  hand,  we  know  your  wit,  we  know  your 
learning.  Can  a  light  be  hid  in  darkness?  No,  it  but 
streams  the  brighter. 

L/UCRETIA. — I  am  ashamed  you  should  fib  so,  la. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  will  be  your  friend,  Lucretia  :  you 
shall  woo  him  to-night  from  your  window  balcony  amidst 
the  roses  and  jasmine;  and  that  he  be  not  prejudiced 
against  your  race-color,  the  first  night  you  shall  make 
love  in  a  veil  the  color  of  his  race  ;  the  second  night  the 
veil  shall  be  a  shade  darker ;  and  in  seven  nights,  by  this 
sweet  declension,  he  shall  come  to  look  on  you,  unveiled, 
as  the  heart  of  the  twilight. 

lyUCRETiA. — But  can  it  be  done,  sir  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — In  faith,  I  think  so.  I  will  hasten  and 
purchase  the  veils :  meanwhile,  Lucretia,  make  me  a 
wood  fire  in  the  library :  I  will  search  through  the  poets 
for  some  pretty  speeches  for  the  balcony,  with  a  love 
song  to  make  them  the  more  gracious.  Stay,  L,ucretia, 
you  are  forgetting  something. 

. — (Courtesying)  Thank  you,  sir. 
97 


KIRKWOOD. — No,  Lucretia,  I  do  not  mean  that :  I 
mean  your  lover  has  made  me  executor  of  a  poor  hun- 
dred kisses.  What  shall  I  do  with  'em  ?  (Aside)  Now 
I  stagger  in  my  trust. 

LUCRETIA. — La,  Mr.  Belmont,  I  cannot  choose  but 
laugh.  [Exit. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  I  must  have  care  :  if  I  begin  by 
making  love  to  her  for  another  man,  I'll  end  by  making 
love  to  her  for  myself.  [Exit. 

Scene  j. — The  same. 
Enter  Frances  and  Edith. 

FRANCES. — Now,  Edith,  I  have  you  where  I  have 
wished  you  these  many  days  ;  where  you  can  neither 
take  offense  nor  give  offense.  I  would  I  had  all  re- 
formers even  so. 

EDITH. — You  cannot  part  true  reformation  from  offense. 

FRANCES. — I  hasten  to  believe,  I  beg  to  agree.  I  mean 
since  you  are  to  found  a  destiny  league  you  cannot  chide 
me  if  I  do  not  approve,  for  that  is  my  fate;  neither  can  I 
take  offense  at  your  solicitations,  for  that  is  your  fate. 
Ah!  what  a  comfortable  doctrine  it  is. 

EDITH. — We  were  not  born  to  be  comfortable:  do  you 
realize  that  ? 

FRANCES. — You  are  wrapt,  you  are  wrapt;  else  you 
would  smile  at  that  saying.  How,  not  born  to  be  com- 
fortable lounging  in  pleasant  hammock  in  pleasant  shade  ? 
Leave  me :  I  have  known  the  fullness  of  life  ;  I  have 
laughed,  I  have  loved.  Now  let  the  Sphinx  speak. 

EDITH. — You  will  not  aid  me  in  founding  this  destiny 
league  ? 

98 


FRANCES. — I  will  not  lend  you  a  suitor,  lest  you  make 
too  free  with  his  destiny:  away.  But,  Edith,  Edith, 
make  the  league  simple,  for  amusements  are  simple  or 
nothing. 

EDITH. — What  do  you  read?     I  will  lend  you  a  book. 

FRANCES. — Does  not  the  cover  proclaim  a  modern 
book  though  the  title  confesses  nothing  ?  In  the  begin- 
ning the  villain  looks  about  to  big-blue-eyed-sorrow  and 
divine  Providence  in  doubt;  but  a  benign  author  has 
conclusion,  and  the  golden  waters  of  patience  flow  to 
paradise.  Yet,  indeed,  I  do  not  greatly  care  to  read  such 
books;  I  rather  re-read  'em. 

EDITH. — You  would  be  more  edified  with  this  volume. 

FRANCES. — Lend  not  me  that  book;  it  has  a  black  pur- 
gatorial binding.  I  am  sure  'tis  like  the  catacombs,  all 
bones  and  skulls;  a  sea  of  unrest  in  duodecimo;  a  shadow 
in  buckram.  By  my  faith,  I  can  hear  it  groan.  What 
melancholy  malcontent  o'  the  paper  age  talked  into  that 
paper  phonograph  ? 

EDITH. — This  is  wit,  not  logic. 

FRANCES. — An'  I  have  the  wit,  I  care  not  who  has  the 
logic.  O  'tis  so  easy  to  be  miserable  and  write  miserable 
books,  that  were  I  this  author  I  would  mend  my  style 
and  let  my  joy  confess  my  labor. 

EDITH. — Do  you  know  I  would  found  this  destiny 
league  but  to  make  Bernice  Hunter  secretary,  that  she  sup- 
port herself  in  some  comfort  and  labor  in  mind  rather 
than  in  body  ? 

FRANCES. — Now  you  have  a  trick  of  realism.  I  will 
do  anything  inoffensive  to  relieve  our  most  unfortunate 

99 


friend.  I  will  lend  you  for  membership  seven  suitors  at 
any  notice,  and  more  to  follow.  What,  I  will  make  love 
for  charity  !  and  no  sooner  shall  a  gentleman  enter  the 
list  but  I  will  hand  him  over  to  destiny  and  dues.  Con- 
fessed we  do  not  believe  in  destiny,  yet  is  not  charity  as 
brave  as  destiny?  and  though  we  call  it  a  destiny  league, 
is  not  the  spirit  the  language?  and  is  not  charity  the 
spirit?  Therefore  we  are  not  hypocrites.  No,  I  cannot 
abide  an  hypocrite. 

EDITH. — I  can  rely  on  you  that  Bernice  will  never 
learn  this  league  is  founded  for  her  benefit  ? 

FRANCES. — You  can  :  and,  as  my  brother  says,  this 
will  be  a  fin-de-siecle  destiny  league,  for  we  do  not  believe 
in  destin3r,  and  our  knowledge  of  destiny,  no  doubt,  is 
less  than  our  belief. 

EDITH. — There  may  be  considerable  truth  in  this 
destiny  question,  which  we  will  labor  to  discover  when 
the  league  is  organized.  I  will  call  again  this  evening. 
Adieu.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. — Here  's  a  woman  who  will  kill  systems, 
philosophies,  charities,  and  other  abstractions,  like  geese 
—two  at  a  cast. 

Enter  Hale. 

Here  comes  a  fatalist.  Good  morning,  have  you  read 
Brahma  ? 

HALE. — Brahma;  critic  or  novelist? 

FRANCES. — Neither :  the  great  abstraction.  What 
pipe  have  you  been  smoking  ? 

HALE. — Ha,  the  Vedas !  Why,  yes,  I  am  familiar  with 
these  teachings. 

100 


FRANCES. — I  dare  say  you-  have  them  in  the  original. 
Do  you  believe  in  destiny  ? 

HALE. — Destiny?  the  word  is  more  inclusive  than  con- 
clusive. But  do  you  get  this  "destiny"  from  the  Vedas, 
Miss  Belmont  ? 

FRANCES. — Do  not  smile:  I  grant  you  that  somewhere 
in  the  haze  of  my  mind  the  Vedas  are  grouped  with  the 
Kismet  of  Mohammed  and  the  three  Fates  in  art.  But 
do  you  ? 

HALE. — Destiny?  'tis  an  old  word  with  a  new  signifi- 
cance; but  if  you  mean  plain  fatality,  no,  Miss  Belmont. 

FRANCES. — You  will  do,  sir,  you  will  do.  You  must 
join  this  fin-de-siecle  destiny  league  which  I  am  founding 
with  our  philanthropic  friend  Edith  Prescott. 

HALE. — And  what  are  the  privileges? 

FRANCES. — You  meet  weekly  and  pay  your  dues. 

HALE. — Is  this  the  new  enlightenment? 

FRANCES. — Ay,  a  candle  in  the  new  enlightenment.  But 
we  shall  also  issue  a  periodical,  and  our  motto  shall  be, 
1 '  Let  us  remember  we  are  destined. ' '  Will  you  subscribe 
your  name  to  this  new  enlightenment? 

HALE. — If  you  are  a  founder,  I  will  take  it  on  me 
sans  heresy. 

FRANCES. — Did  you  subscribe  that  you  might  make 
that  pretty  speech  ? 

HALE. — Give  me  this  rose  i'  your  hair. 

FRANCES. —  Look  where  you  stand: 

Off  from  my  shadow,  sir. 

HALE.—  I  have  the  leaf. 

I'll  not  return  unkindness  for  unkindness 
But  will  reproach  you  with  large  charity, 

101 


Saying  that  since  your'hand  has  touched  this  leaf 

It  is  a  flower,  which  I'll  wear  as  my  life — 

Though  one  see  nothing  worth  another  may. 

Frances,  do  you  recall  when  first  we  met, 

Even  beneath  these  trees  ?     Think  on  that  time 

And  on  the  long  interim  to  this  hour; 

Look  forward  from  that  day  I  cherish  still 

When,  passing  through  formalities  into  friendship, 

You  came  into  my  life  unto  this  hour 

When  I  would  gather  you  unto  my  heart, 

And  know  my  love  long  lasting  as  these  years. 

I  love  you,  Frances,  with  that  dear  regard 

That  cherishes  the  cherisher  not  more, 

And  come  to  ask  unending  fellowship. 

Let  not  my  suit  prove  profitless  and  void, 

Nor  judge  my  heart  by  these  weak  words  in  me  : 

I  have  no  eloquence  that  may  express 

The  love  sincere  I  bear  or  show  your  choice 

Shall  be  my  pathos  and  my  destiny, 

And  words  seem  cold  ;  yet  know  around  you  blow 

The  authentic  airs  wherein  I  move  and  breathe 

And  cannot  live  without. 

FRANCES.—  So  far  you  speak, 

I  look  into  my  heart  and  see  how  cramped 
It  still  has  been  to  entertain  as  guest 
So  true  a  gentleman.     Yet  let  me  pause, 
Not,  sir,  that  I  esteem  another  more, 
But  that  I  am  not  mistress  of  my  choice 
To  give  a  perfect  answer  to  your  words 
Until  some  later  time.     Yet,  in  so  far 


As  to  cherish  your  regard,  I'll  break  reserve, 
Which  still  in  me,  I  find,  has  been  to  love 
A  second  nature,  and  confess  this  much — 
If  I  should  ever  give  my  heart  and  hand 
Into  the  keeping  of  a  gentleman, 
You  shall  not  lose  your  hopes. 

HALE.—  I  thank  you,  Frances. 

That  I  may  hope  to  win  you  as  my  wife 
Gives  me  that  patience  to  endure  the  pause. 
I  will  intrude  no  longer  on  your  book : 
Adieu.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. —  That  I  were  free  to  speak  my  heart, 

Showing  my  tongue  has  been  to  hide  my  heart. 
Yet  when  my  father  spoke  about  his  past, 
I  knew  I  could  not  honorably  consent 
Unless  this  history  should  stand  confessed. 
My  father  must  discover  all  to  me 
That  I  may  know  how  goes  the  light  and  dream. 

Enter  Maurice. 

MAURICE. — 

Since  I  am  not  your  guest,  I  may  presume 

To  be  your  visitor  ? 

FRANCES. —          You  're  welcome  still. 
MAURICE.— And   yet    'tis   said  a  book  's  the   dearest 

[  friend. 

FRANCES. — You  doubt  your  welcome,  then? 
MAURICE. —          I  would  excuse 

Intrusion  on  your  quiet. 

FRANCES. —  Yet  do  not  so; 

My  leisure  's  ample  both  for  friend  and  book. 
103 


MAURICE.— 

If  I  am  welcome  with  a  noble  book 

I  am  twice  welcome,  and  my  friendship  builds 

On  base  enduring. 
FRANCES. —  It  was  shrewdly  said, 

He  flatters  best  who  flatters  what  we  read, 

For  reading  still  presumes  the  heart  and  mind. 

Yet,  sir,  make  not  my  book  my  flattery; 

A  green  romance  unseasoned  by  that  light 

That  beats  upon  the  critic's  throne;  its  name 

Is  scarcely  dry  within  the  catalogue; 

Yet  gentle  prose  it  is  and  sweet  withal. 
MAURICE. — 

Our  friend  Fairfield  has  told  me  of  a  tale 

With  a  divided  plot,  and  both  must  fall 

Unless  he  mend  the  plot. 
FRANCES. —  Yet  time  is  art. 

MAURICE. — 

Still  must  a  woman  comprehend  a  woman: 
I  will  unfold  this  plot  and  let  you  judge 
The  heroine's  decision. 

FRANCES. —  Ay,  do  so. 

I  fain  would  see  this  ear  within  the  blade 
And  learn  what  cankers  may  beset  it  there. 

MAURICE. — 

A  little  while  before  the  Civil  War 

Two  friends  did  quarrel:  the  younger  of  these  two 

Boasted  the  elder's  fall,  and  in  return 

The  elder  challenged  him  with  weapon  drawn; 

104 


Then  did  this  younger  friend  leap  on  the  elder 
And,  in  the  act,  the  weapon  was  discharged, 
Killing  the  challenger  by  accident. 
The  only  witness — yet  I  know  not  why — 
Thrust  murder  on  this  younger  friend,  who  fled; 
Beyond  the  call  of  angel  or  of  man 
Should  he  be  taken  by  mistaken  law. 
Long  afterwards,  within  this  west  of  wests, 
This  refugee,  now  in  decline  of  life, 
By  a  descendant  of  that  fallen  friend, 
Is  recognized.     Now  mark  the  dilemma  : 
This  refugee  a  lovely  daughter  has 
Whose  hand  this  same  descendant  will  possess 
Or  else  he  will  expose  this  refugee 
Unto  the  law,  dishonoring  his  age  ; 
And  what  is  more,  exposing  him  to  death, 
Or  life-long  durance,  which  is  worse  than  both. 
Which  will  the  daughter  do  :  be  sacrificed 
To  pillar  her  father's  honor  and  decline, 
Consenting  to  be  the  wife  of  this  descendant  ? 
Or  leave  that  father  to  the  course  of  law, 
Wedding  his  age  unto  a  wilderness  ? 
FRANCES. — 

If  she  should  choose  the  last,  this  book  to  me 

Would  be  a  battle  from  cover  unto  cover : 

I  could  not  choose  but  scorn  her  selfishness. 

No  ;  let  this  same  descendant  gain  the  daughter- 

'Tis  pity  men  set  books  so  bad  example — 

As  terms  of  silence ;  and  so  let  it  wear 

In  shadow  to  the  shadow  of  the  altar, 

And  then — 

105 


MAURICE. —          Why  do  you  pause  ? 
FRANCES. —          Is  't  possible 

Such  is  his  plot? 

MAURICE. —          No,  this  is  not  his  plot. 
FRANCES. — Whose,  then  ? 
MAURICE. —          'Tis  mine. 
FRANCES. —  Your  plot :  do  you  write  this? 

MAURICE. — No  :  I  would  learn  your  heart  in  such  an 
FRANCES. — Why  would  you  learn  ?  [issue. 

MAURICE. —          You  are  to  act  this  part. 
FRANCES. — I  ? 
MAURICE.  —          Even  you .   Your  father ' s  this  refugee , 

And  I  am  this  descendant. 
FRANCES. —  O  what  is  this  ! 

MAURICE. — You  must  endure. 
FRANCES. —  Ah,  you  but  jest  to  me. 

MAURICE. — 

If  I  do  jest  I  do  not  jest  in  vain. 

Briefly  this  is  no  tale,  it  is  the  truth 

Which  Fairfield  dreams  not  of;  no  man  but  I. 

And  for  this  truth  you  must  become  my  wife. 

Since  I  have  looked  upon  your  face  I  see 

I  have  a  devil  in  my  heart. 
FRANCES. —  O  me, 

He  has  a  fever. 

MAURICE. —          I  can  well  think  that. 
FRANCES. — 

Sir,  sir,  my  father  is  no  refugee: — 

From  whence? 

MAURICE. —          From  Richmond  in  Virginia. 

106 


FRANCES. — 

Richmond,  Virginia!  'tis  no  such  thing. 

My  father  came  from  England  to  this  State, 

And  knows  no  other  State.     Virginia! 

Why,  sir,  my  father  is  an  Englishman. 
MAURICE. — An  Englishman! 
FRANCES. —  An  Englishman,  I  swear  it. 

MAURICE. — 

And  yet  I  know  he  is  American — 

That  you  have  grasped  enough  to  build  defense. 

His  name  is  Robert  Belmont:  he  who  killed 

A  Colvin  in  Virginia.     I've  proof 

Which  naught  can  shake.    Come,  will  you  be  my  wife, 

And  save  your  father  from  condemning  law  ? 
FRANCES. — 

You  know  this  history  and  speak  but  thus 

To  grace  some  better  news  ? 
MAURICE. —          No,  never  think 

I  prologue  sweet  with  gall  or  good  with  ill. 

I  grace  no  better  news. 
FRANCES. —  Then  this  is  truth  ? 

MAURICE. — It  is. 

FRANCES. —  O,  God  defend  me ! 

MAURICE. —          This  is  so : 

Do  you  consent  ? 
FRANCES. —  It  is  the  truth  I  grasp  : 

You  would  betray  my  father  in  his  age ; 

You  that  he  cherished  even  as  his  son, 

You  that  but  yesterday  he  called  his  guest, 

You  that  the  time  named  friend. 
MAURICE. —          Ay,  even  I. 

107 


FRANCES. — Touch  him  and  you  touch  law. 
MAURICE. —          Do  you  consent  ? 
FRANCES. — 

I  see  ;  run  through  and  through  with  evil  times. 

Yet  do  your  worst ;  you  shall  not  wrong  his  age  ; 

The  world  is  wide  to  honest  men  ;  somewhere 

His  innocence  is  free. 
MAURICE. —          His  honored  name 

Is  here  within  my  mouth  that  spitting  I 

Can  vilely  mix  it  with  the  dust. 
FRANCES. —  And  yet 

You  said  it  was  an  accident. 
MAURICE. —         I  did. 

It  may  or  may  not  be. 
FRANCES. —  Does  he  know  this  ? 

MAURICE. — 

That  rests  with  you  :  you  can  discover  this. 

My  suit  is  with  yourself.     Do  you  consent  ? 
FRANCES. — 

Stay,  give  me  time  to  know  you  as  you  are. 

Let  me  but  comprehend  that  when  I  speak 

I  speak  not  to  a  man  :  so,  even  so. 

Now  to  your  suit :  I  must  consent  to  be — 

Your  wife. 
MAURICE. —  If  I  could  have  won  you  honorably 

I  had  been  near  the  angels  ;  else  decreed, 

I  see  I'm  near  the  fiends. 
FRANCES. —  I  must  take  thought. 

If  I  should  stay  I'll  swoon  ;  let  me  go  in  : 

My  brain  is  wrought. 
MAURICE.—  Take  thought  and  let  me  know. 

This  seems  unnatural  but  it  is  so.  [Exeunt. 

108 


Scene  4. — A  public  vestibule. 
Enter  Garland  and  Bernice. 

BKRNICK. — 

Since  Providence  does  send  misfortune  oft 
To  make  us  strong, — 

GARLAND. —          Do  not  believe  'tis  so. 
Misfortune  is  not  shaped  by  Providence: 
He  gave  us  minds  to  take  the  larger  choice, 
To  make  the  best  of  our  calamities, 
Which,  to  the  wise,  oft  prove  advantageous, 
And  there  's  an  end.     Is  this  the  larger  choice, 
This  secretaryship  ? 

BERNICE.—  I  think  so,  sir. 

GARLAND. — 

Well,  you  have  my  consent;  and  yet  I  fear 
You  make  this  occupation  but  these  months 
Until  you  come  of  age,  and  then  you  look 
To  marriage  for  release.     Take  heed  of  that: 
If  you  do  look  to  marriage  for  a  trade 
You'll  wake  to  find  this  marriage  a  poor  trade. 

BERNICE. — I  try  to  act  with  wisdom  in  all  things. 

GARLAND. — 

Wisdom  lives  not  alone  in  willing,  but 
In  every  truth  o'  the  mind:  then  bear  with  me 
When  I  give  counsel;  I  speak  for  the  world. 
(Aside.)    Yet  I  will  join  this  league  and  bear  it  down , 
Discovering  the  frailty  of  support, 
That  you  may  yet  consent  to  be  my  wife.    [Exeunt. 
109 


Enter  Kirkwood  and  Fairfield. 

KIRKWOOD. — Is  not  this  a  brave  destiny  league  ?  have 
we  not  succeeded  ?  do  we  not  prosper  ?  are  we  not  a  light 
in  the  land  ?  We  make,  we  unmake;  we  say  " write  this' ', 
and  it  is  written;  we  say  "read  this",  and  it  is  read;  we 
say  "believe  this",  and  it  is  believed.  This  is  the  fine 
art  of  destiny. 

FAIRFIELD. — Ha !  what  a  consummate  free  lance  our 
official  organ  will  make. 

KIRKWOOD. — Do  you  mark  that  ?  You  will  now  get 
the  public  ear. 

FAIRFIELD. — O  could  I  once  get  the  public  ear. 

KIRKWOOD. — Come,  what  will  you  do  with  the  public 
ear  when  you  have  it  ? 

FAIRFIELD. — Zounds,  I  will  twist  it. 

KIRKWOOD. — You  must  get  out  a  work  on  destiny  : 
the  mere  project  will  bind  this  league  together  for  seven 
months ;  and  then  I  care  not. 

FAIRFIELD. — A  word  to  an  Irishman — 

KIRKWOOD. — Is  two.  Now  I  am  nearer  heaven  or 
hell  by  a  book. 

FAIRFIELD. — Have  you  heard  that  Garland  is  to  join 
the  league  ?  It  will  never  do  ;  I  hear  he  believes  in 
destiny  ;  think  o'  that. 

KIRKWOOD. — What,  the  Secretary's  guardian  ? 

FAIRFIELD. — Yes. 

KIRKWOOD. — O  I  will  make  an  ass  of  him.  I  will 
call  a  special  meeting  and  have  passed  a  form  of  initiation 
that  if  Garland  join  he  will  be  compelled  to  run  the 
pricks  of  ceremony  with  yourself  as  master  of  ceremony — 

no 


for  he  would  never  join  with  me  as  master  of  ceremony — 
and  you  shall  beat  him  like  an  old  carpet,  all  pattern  and 
no  texture.  He  imagines  himself  a  philosopher,  and  it  is 
the  quintessence  of  revenge  to  make  an  ass  of  a  philoso- 
pher. The  faithful  can  do  no  wrong. 

FAIRFIEXD. — All  is  fate.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Lawyer. 

KIRKWOOD. — Here  comes  my  strong  man  of  the  law 
who  can  break  a  bond  with  one  hand  behind  him.  Well, 
sir,  how  goes  my  suit  ? 

LAWYER . — If  I  can  locate  an  old  nurse  of  this  Hunter 
family,  I  believe,  on  good  ground,  I  can  prove  that  this 
young  woman  is  come  of  age. 

KIRKWOOD. — Proof:  what  's  in  proof?  Sir,  law  is 
lawyers:  you  make  the  jury  laugh,  you  have  the  evi- 
dence; you  make  the  jury  weep,  you  have  the  law.  This 
is  the  law  and  the  evidence. 

LAWYER. — This  the  law? 

KIRKWOOD. — The  law  manifest. 

LAWYER. — Come,  your  suit  's  as  good  as  won :  a  word 
or  two  with  you.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  5. — A  pathway. 

Enter  Maurice  and  Laura. 
LAURA. — 

You  do  not  greet  me  with  that  fond  regard 

That  you  were  wont.     I  have  not  lost  my  heart 

That  you  should  greet  a  blank. 
MAURICE. —          I  greet  a  blank ! 

I  am  misjudged. 

in 


LAURA. —  O  may  I  root  this  out 

Before  it  prove  a  caucer  on  my  faith. 

I  keep  not  so  much  of  this  constant  heart 

To  chide  inconstancy,  and  yet  your  love 

Is  no  more  to  be  found.     Where  is  it  gone  ? 
MAURICE. — 

I  have  done  wisely  in  thus  seeming  cold, 

Yet  such  a  kind  of  wisdom  as  lacks  for  words. 
LAURA. — 

O  I  do  fear  what  cannot  be  explained  ; 

The  worser  half  is  woman. 
MAURICE. —          Think  not  that, 

Lest  I  should  grow  unkind. 
LAURA. —  Have  I  wronged  you  ? 

Then  give  to  me  my  sins  ;  they  are  my  own. 

Wherein  stand  I  condemned  ? 
MAURICE. —  In  speaking  thus. 

My  whole  estate  is  toppling  to  its  base, 

And  I  would  root  out  love  within  your  heart 

Who  cannot  cherish  it  with  luxury. 

Upon  a  word,  I  am  a  beggar. 
LAURA. —  This  ! 

O  pardon  me  that  I  did  doubt  your  love. 

You're  ruined  ? 

MAURICE. —          Virtually:  let  us  take  separate  ways. 
LAURA. — 

Divided!  never:  poverty  has  riches; 

And  I  have  that  which  shall  suffice  for  both. 

If  my  estate  can  aid  you  in  this  hour — 

As  I  have  heard  that  credit  's  behind  gold — 

Use  all,  and  give  me  words  affectionate. 
112 


MAURICE.  — 

Come  in  the  shade;  I  have  a  fever  here. 

(Aside.)  Now  have  I  forged  the  strongest  link  in  love 

While  I  did  think  to  rid  this  thwarting  chain. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  6.  —  A  room  in  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Belmont  and  Frances. 

BELMONT.  — 

Now  do  you  know  my  early  history, 
A  tragedy  extant  in  human  sorrow. 
It  is  the  dregs  of  anger  which  I  drink; 
And  you,  my  child,  have  tasted  of  this  cup 
Since,  as  you  say,  without  the  whole  event 
You  cannot  honorably  consider  marriage 
When  one  shall  ask  your  heart  in  fellowship:  — 
And  I  have  told  you  all:  —  your  mother  knew. 
What  insubstantial  thing  may  break  life's  thread, 
But  who  can  kill  a  deed. 

FRANCES.  —  Alas,  'tis  true. 

Your  innocence  should  have  cried  from  your  pure 
youth. 


All  things  are  pure  until  they  have  been  stained  — 
This  is  the  world's  decree;  and  my  good  name 
Was  overmastered  by  the  circumstance. 
FRANCES.  — 

Why,  some  are  angry  every  day  they  Hve 
Yet  suffer  not  like  this. 


My  teachings  should  have  checked  my  heated  pride, 

Which  led  me  to  abuse  my  dearest  friend 

And  put  me  from  the  fullness  of  the  law; 

Yet  nature,  by  no  scope  of  cold  respect, 

Will  be  the  handmaid  of  philosophy; 

We  feel  the  native  touch  and,  in  the  bias 

Of  flesh  and  blood,  we  pluck  our  borrowings  off 

And  prove  the  primal  stock.     Be  comforted ; 

I  doubt  it  not  that  this  shall  die  in  me 

And  be  forgot :  and  when  you  are  beloved, 

If  you  are  deeply  loved,  this  will  not  stand 

Against  your  name,  for  nature,  wise  as  love, 

Decrees  the  one  we  love  shall  have  no  past ; 

And  by  your  husband  I  am  soon  forgot. 

FRANCES.-— 

I'll  none  of  such  light-hearted  breed  :     Adieu. 

[Exit  Belmont. 

I  cannot  find  the  heart  to  speak  the  truth, 

For  rather  than  I  sacrifice  myself 

Unto  this  traitor,  whom  he  still  calls  ''friend," 

He  would  discover  all  unto  the  law  ; 

His  voice  of  character  cries  'gainst  the  deed. 

I  know  not  how  to  act  nor  where  to  turn  ; 

By  my  own  light  I  cannot  but  succumb, 

And  Heaven  has  but  one  mouth  and  that  is  dumb. 


114 


Scene  7. — Beside  Belmont's  house. 

Lucretia  discovered  above  on  balcony,  veiled  in  white,  and 
partly  screened  front  below  by  vines  and  trellis ;  Kirkwood  and 
Lambert  discovered  beneath  the  balcony. 

LAMBKRT. — O  that  I  might  see  her  features. 
KIRKWOOD. — Hark,  the  heavens  open. 
lyUCRETiA. — (Sings). 

Bloom,  bloom,  ye  laurel  trees, 

And  cast  your  timely  crown  ; 
Wake,  wake,  ye  symphonies, 
And  hymn  a  new  renown  : 
O  the  stars  that  ride 
On  a  golden  tide 
Have  lighted  my  soldier  to  me  ; 
And  his  hawking  eye, 
When  his  Love  is  by, 
Is  kindled  like  Mars  in  the  sea. 
LAMBERT. — Jove,  a  sweet  voice. 

KIRKWOOD. — Dulcet,  dulcet.     Now  speak  the  speech. 
LAMBERT. — 

The  twilight  drinks  the  lips  of  parting  day, — 
A  cup  to  thee,  my  Queen,  'neath  starlit  spray, — 
While  Love  is  sporting  in  the  Summer  gauze, 
Caught  up  to  heaven  in  a  budding  cause: 
The  West  is  warm  with  Phoebus'  golden  flight, 
And  Dian  is  unmasked  unto  the  night. 
In  such  a  night  young  Love  might  see  again, 
With  eyes  like  stars  new  lit  in  Darien. 
KIRKWOOD. — Courage,  man;  another  speech  like  that 
and  she  will  bring  along  our  best  silver  spoons.     Hush! 


LUCRETIA. — 

Far  through  a  golden  mist  I  may  espy 
A  classic  temple  shining  gloriously, 
Where  morn  and  noon  and  tender  eve  above 
Are  but  the  pathos  and  the  smile  of  love: 
Thither  I  flee  across  the  glowing  dew, 
Warm  as  Cressida  but  as  Thisbe  true. 

KIRKWOOD. — "Warm  as  Cressida"  !     There  's  salad. 

LAMBERT. — Will  she  come  down  now,  or  must  I  mount? 

KIRKWOOD. — Stand  to.    When  thou  art  not  beside  me — 

LAMBERT. — 

When  thou  art  not  beside  me,  O  my  Queen, 

Nor  up  the  pleasant  valley  mayest  be  seen, 

Then  all  the  glowing  air  is  overcast, 

And  Summer's  chaplets  bend  before  the  blast; 

And,  Love,  I  wander  all  bereft  of  light 

And  moan  for  Spring  from  out  unending  night. 

Give  us  leave  to  talk,  Kirk. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  are  you  not  talking?     Did  ever 
lovers  talk  like  you  two  lovers  talk  ? 

LAMBERT. — She  is  all  mine? 

KIRKWOOD. — All.     Hush  ! 

LUCRETIA. — 

Thou'rt  in  the  sap  and  rose  of  lustihood, 
And  I  will  flee  with  thee  into  the  wood. 
When  June  in  beauty  walks  through  glen  and  glade, 
I'll  sport  with  thee  amid  the  flowery  shade; 
Tangling  thy  crooked  curls  I'll  make  sweet  moan 
And  hymn  of  one  love  and  that  love  our  own. 
116 


LAMBERT.  —Jove,  she  has  some  salad  in  her  for  all  her 
holding  back.  Do  I  sigh  now? 

KIRKWOOD. — Ay,  heave  a  sigh  as  if  your  heart  would 
crack.  Another,  man,  another;  louder.  Courage  ;  she 
has  given  you  sigh  for  sigh. 

LAMBERT. — There  's  life  in  it. 

KIRKWOOD. — Ethereal  eighteen. 

LAMBERT. — I'll  have  her.     I  love  you,  Kirk. 

KIRKWOOD. — That  voice  again  !  — 

LAMBERT.— 

That  voice  again!  how  low,  how  sweet,  how  clear; 
Filling  the  enamoured  hollow  of  the  ear 
Like  twilight  harps  upon  a  Summer  strand 
Or  chimes  from  temples  gold  in  "faery  land. 

KIRKWOOD. — You  have  subdued  her,  you  have  subdued 
her.  But  you  must  feed  her  on  these  speeches  a  night  or 
two  that  she  grow  plump  with  love.  Rein  your  im- 
patience: remember  all  things  come  to  those  who  wait. 

LAMBERT. — Why  the  devil  does  she  keep  behind  those 
jasmines?  I  want  to  see  her  features.  She  looks  white 
as  a  lily. 

KIRKWOOD. — Don't  mar  the  romance:  I  promise  you  a 
view  of  her  the  next  night.  She  is  ravishing.  Is  she 
still  there?  why  does'nt  she  answer?  I  cannot  see  any- 
thing smothered  in  these  vines. 

LAMBERT. — Still  there.  Is  my  title  certain  ?  a  lover's 
heart,  you  know,  is  fearful. 

KIRKWOOD. — What,  will  she  not  elope? 
LAMBERT. — Hark  !  she  is  going  to  speak. 

117 


LUCRETIA. — 

O  crown  my  Love  while  heaven  witnesseth 
His  Queen  has  called  him  lord  with  perfect  breath: 
Crown  him  while  swims  the  moon  in  golden  mist 
And  golden  stars  crowd  eagerly  to  list 
The  music  of  our  bridal  heard  alone 
Within  a  wood  where  late  the  queen  moon  shone. 
KIRKWOOD. — If  this  is  not  constancy,  then  I  never  loved. 
LAMBERT. — But  what  does  she  mean  by  harping  on 
the  u  woods"  ?    Sure,  she  must  be  "in  the  woods'*  herself. 
KIRKWOOD. — Have  you  no  understanding  of  the  fine- 
ness of  romance  ?    I  despise  you :  let  me  make  love  awhile. 
LAMBERT. — Get  in  there,  or  I  will  choke  you.     She  is 
mine. 

KIRKWOOD. — Hush!    don't    discover    me;    you    will 
frighten  her  black  and  blue.     Take  your  fingers  out  of 
my  hair.     O  come  away — 
LAMBERT. — 

O  come  away,  my  Love,  into  the  gold, 
To  dales  more  fair  than  ever  poet  told  ; 
Where  valleys  woo  the  hills,  the  hills  the  sky, 
The  sky  the  valley  that  beneath  dost  lie : 
Where  hushed  groves  have  found  their  throats  again 
And  take  the  south  with  their  melodious  strain. 
Bright  orient  birds,  with  upward  wing  and  glad, 
W'ill  lift  thy  drooping  locks  when  thou  art  sad, 
And  wandering  waters  hide  their  crystal  flow 
To  rise  more  sweet  against  thy  lips'  warm  glow. 
Where  every  shadow  of  the  leaf  has  got 
A  perfume  which  the  morning  rose  has  not. 

118 


But,  Kirk,  this  isn't  an  apology  of  making  love  :  I 
want  to  get  rny  arms  around  her. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  you  coarse-grained,  unsentimental 
fellow,  you  deserve  no  better  than  to  make  love  to  that 
little  black  wench  who  sometimes  kills  rose  bugs  on  yon 
balcony,  or  is  serenaded  by  lovers  of  Ham. 

LUCRETIA. — 

O  I^ove,  I  dream  my  Love  dreams  of  my  love, 
And  in  that  dream  of  love  which  my  Love  dreams 
My  Love  dreams  that  I  dream  of  his  sweet  love ; 
And  all  night  long  we  dream  the  others  dreams. 

LAMBERT. — This  is  rather  tangled  love. 

KIRKWOOD.— Hush  !  speak  the  invitation  ;  but  if  she 
is  coy,  have  done.  Take  the  banjo  and  thrum. 

LAMBERT. — This  may  fetch  her. 

O,  Love,  list  to  my  lovely  invitation, 
Hymning  thy  beauty's  height  in  invocation, 
In  throbbing,  pleading,  yearning  invocation. 
(Plays  on  banjo} 

Star  of  love  and  light, 

Streaming  from  thy  sphere 
Far  through  golden  night 

Till  the  dawn  is  near, 
Then  fading  to  the  passion  flower's  splendid  tear  : 

Rose  of  summer  dusk, 

Stirred  by  dulcet  sound 
Till  thy  balmy  musk 

All  the  air  hath  drowned, 
And  poets  dream  the  Thought  within  the  rose  is  found  : 

119 


Lily  of  the  vale, 

Sprung  in  golden  light 
With  a  splendor  pale 

As  the  Queen  of  night 
Fading  into  her  mansion  on  the  western  height : 

Bird  of  tropic  fire, 

In  pomegranate  tree, 
Flooding  with  sweet  quire 

All  the  canopy, 
Until  new  heavens  tremble  to  thy  melody  : 

Come,  O  come  away 

Past  the  starlit  wold, 
Past  the  valleys  gray, 

Past  the  billows  rolled, 
Beyond  the  mountains  blue  into  the  farther  gold. 

What  do  I  mean,  Kirk  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  Lucretia  's  the  star  and  the  rose, 
the  lily  and  the  tropic  bird.  This  is  a  poetical  invitation, 
meaning — Come  out,  sweet,  and  take  a  stroll. 

LAMBERT. — Jove,  how  wonderfully  and  fearfully  poetry 
is  made. 

KIRKWOOD. — Poetry  is  talking  'round  a  corner. 

LAMBERT. — But  will  Lucretia  talk  'round  a  corner  with 
me  ?  that  would  be  poetry. 

KIRKWOOD. — What,  did  I  not  tell  you  she  is  romantic, 
and  will  not  show  her  features  till  you  love  her ;  for  sure, 
she  said,  we  must  love  the  angels  before  we  see  them,  and 
love  for  Lucretia  shall  be  as  man's  love  for  the  angels. 

LAMBERT. — But  I  love  her  passionately. 

120 


KIRKWOOD. — Hark  ! 

LUCRETIA. — Adieu,  my  Love  ;  my  only  love,  adieu. 

LAMBERT. — O  come  across  the  dew,  the  glowing  dew. 

LUCRETIA. — O  not  to-night,  my  Love  ;  O  not  to-night. 

LAMBERT. — Ah  yes  to-night,  my  Love;  ah  yes  to-night. 

LUCRETIA. — Good  night,  my  king;  good  night,  good 
night,  good  night. 

LAMBERT. — Good  night,  my  queen;  good  night,  good 
night,  good  night. 

LUCRETIA. — My  love. 

LAMBERT. —         My  soul. 

O,  well  of  Lucretia,  I  will  draw  back 

Lest  I  should  come  unto  some  sudden  confusion 

In  the  deep  wonder  of  young  Love's  illusion. 

KIRKWOOD. — Now  man,  to  bed  and  to  dreams. 

[Exeunt. 


131 


ACT  III. 

Scene  i. — A  lawn  before  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Belmont  and  Garland. 

GARLAND. — Until  my  ward  comes  of  age,  it  is  my  ex- 
press wish  there  be  no  communication  between  her  and 
your  son:  as  a  father  I  am  responsible  for  her  deeds,  yet, 
like  many  fathers,  my  responsibility  has  no  head  and 
carriage  in  't.  If  your  authority  can  reach  your  son,  I 
request  you  to  break  this  intercourse  between  them,  the 
end  whereof  is  marriage. 

BELMONT. — His  years  have  dissolved  my  authority, 
but  his  age  approves  my  wisdom. 

GARLAND. — He  is  thrice  fortunate,  and  therein  my 
anxiety  suffers  great  abatement.  It  is  well  you  join  to 
this  the  loss  of  her  estate, — my  ward  is  not  so  dear  to  me 
but  I  would  be  grieved  to  see  your  son  make  so  destitute 
connection. 

BELMONT. — I  shall  do  so. 

GARLAND. — Ay.  As  it  were — 'tis  a  hard  word  against 
one  I  have  cherished. 

BELMONT.— Destitution  ? 

GARLAND. — No:  unchastity. 

BELMONT. — So ! 

GARLAND. — Enough:  I  have  said.     I  dissolve  my  re- 
lations with  my  ward  to-day.  [Exit. 
Enter  Kirkwood. 

BELMONT. — Is  that  you,  my  boy  ? 
KIRKWOOD. — It  is. 

122 


BELMONT. — Mr.  Garland  has  been  speaking  with  me. 

KIRKWOOD. — He  's  not  blind,  yet  has  a  dog  for  guide. 

BBLMONT. — Sir,  sir,  what  do  you  mean? 

KIRKWOOD. — I  was  in  the  summer  house,  and  by 
accident  overheard  what  he  said  of  his  ward. 

BEUMONT. — This  saves  me  painful  explanation. 

KIRKWOOD. — Do  not  believe  it,  sir. 

BELMONT. — I  would  not  credit  it  on  other  authority. 
You  must  not  allow  your  judgment  to  be  seduced  ;  you 
are  young. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  grant  I  am  young,  yet  not  too  young 
to  make  this  lady  my  wife. 

BELMONT. — Her  guardian  has  cast  her  off. 

KIRKWOOD. — Sir,  she  is  come  of  age.  He  mistook  her 
dead  sister's  age  for  hers, — I  have  the  proofs — and  his 
authority  gone  from  him  he  will  slander  her  to  estrange 
us  that  he  himself,  through  her  destitution,  may  force 
her  to  be  his  wife.  The  lady  is  innocent,  and  I  will 
make  her  my  wife  to-morrow  to  shield  her  from  further 
insult.  Sir,  give  me  your  approval. 

BELMONT. — Under  the  circumstances,  I  withhold  it.  If 
3'ou  desire  my  love  you  must  forget  her. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  am  deeply  grieved,  sir,  that  your  com- 
mendation goes  not  along ;  nevertheless,  I  will  make  Miss 
Hunter  my  wife,  and,  sir,  she  will  do  you  honor.  {Exit. 

Enter  Frances. 

BELMONT. — Come  hither,  Frances.  What  do  you 
know  of  Mr.  Garland's  ward;  I  mean  her  character. 

FRANCES. — She  is  the  incarnation  of  all  that  is  gentle 
and  noble. 

123 


BELMONT. — Do  you  know  her  well? 

FRANCES. — As  few  sisters  know  their  sisters. 

BELMONT. — That  is  all.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. — 

The  gentleness  of  woman  's  in  his  heart, 
Yet,  should  I  discover  how  I  am  beset 
By  this  false  traitorous  friend,  what  profit  it? 
I  dare  do  naught  but  suffer ;  endure  alone 
What  passes  woman's  strength.     O  misery, 
What  answer  I  shall  make  I  do  not  know  : 
I  cannot  live  and  see  my  father  dishonored, 
I  cannot  live  and  be  this  traitor's  wife. 

Enter  Edith. 
Edith  you  are  welcome. 

EDITH. — I  trust  so. 

FRANCES. — Do  you  bring  a  membership  blank  of  that 
league  for  reforming  men  ? 

EDITH. — I  do  not.     Why  do  you  ask  ? 

FRANCES. — To  any  pledge  for  reforming  men,  I  will 
subscribe  my  name  and  thank  heaven  for  the  privilege. 

EDITH. — A  marked  change ;  a  change  to  ink. 

FRANCES. — That  ink  may  not  be  so  black  but  the 
reason  is  blacker.  I  have  sometimes  thought  I  could 
paint  the  heavens  more  fair;  now  I  see  I  am  destined  to 
paint  the  world  more  foul. 

EDITH. — You  have  been  wronged. 

FRANCES. — Heigh-ho !  how  do  you  like  my  new  dress: 
does  it  not  become  me?  am  I  not  enhanced  in  't  ?  When 
woman  admires  woman — is  not  that  triumph  ? 

124 


EDITH. — Is  woman  no  more  than  an  institution  of 
clothes  ? 

FRANCES. — I  care  not;  there  's  nothing  serious.  Let's 
believe  and  part:  you  that  way:  I  this  way;  and  a  fig  for 
the  rest. 

EDITH. — '  Tis  evident  you  have  been  wronged.  I  have 
certain  work  to  do;  I  will  not  allow  myself  to  be  incapaci- 
tated through  you  grieving  me;  neither  will  I  allow  you 
to  wrong  your  friend.  Good  day.  [Exit. 

Enter  Hale  and  Maurice. 

FRANCES. — Gentlemen,  you  must  entertain  me.  What, 
did  I  startle  you,  Lieutenant?  Nay,  sit  down,  sit  down. 
Captain  Hale,  take  this  magazine  and  look  at  the  pic- 
tures :  I  will  converse  with  Lieutenant  Colvin ;  God  made 
him.  Will  you  believe,  Lieutenant,  that  but  this  mo- 
ment Edith  Prescott  asked  me  to  join  a  league  founded 
for  the  purpose  of  reforming  men  ?  Would  you  not  put 
her  down,  and  that  right  suddenly?  or  will  you  join, 
Lieutenant  ? 

HALE. — If  your  friend  will  cease  an  hour  to  discover 
our  faults,  she  may  grow  to  some  acquaintance  with  our 
virtues. 

FRANCES. — Will  you  speak  for  the  Lieutenant?  Nay, 
you  as  well  propose  to  suffice  for  his  honor  as  his  voice. 
Is  not  your  soldier's  honor  your  most  cherished  possess- 
ion, Lieutenant  Colvin  ? 

MAURICE. — I  have  my  discharge,  Miss  Belmont ;  I  am 
no  longer  a  soldier. 

125 


FRANCES. — O  you  must  say  "honorable  discharge," 
lest  those  who  know  you  not  be  left  in  doubt.  Let  me 
instruct  you. 

HALE. — You  do  it  masterly. 

FRANCES. — Nay,  if  a  soldier  has  not  his  honor,  he  has 
nothing  handsome  about  him.  The  Lieutenant  will  sup- 
port me. 

HALE. — We,  then,  Miss  Belmont,  have  something 
handsome  about  us  ? 

FRANCES. — O,  sir,  when  you  have  nothing  witty  to 
say,  read  the  advertisements. 

HALE.— Good  ;  I  will.  (Affecting  to  read}  Wanted  ; 
a  good  angel. 

FRANCES. — Hush  !  hush  !  read  no  further,  read  no 
further:  "a  good  angel";  I  want  a  "good  angel," 
gentlemen. 

HALE. — Allow  me  to  be  your  "good  angel,"  Miss 
Belmont? 

FRANCES. — No,  Lieutenant  Colvin  will  be  my  "good 
angel  ":  will  you  not,  Lieutenant? 

MAURICE. — In  all  things,  Miss  Belmont. 

FRANCES. — So  kind,  so  kind.  Nay,  do  not  go,  Lieu- 
tenant :  I  am  sure  you  have  leisure.  Am  I  not  right, 
Captain  Hale;  has  he  not  leisure? 

HALE. — If  I  am  not  mistaken,  he  has  some  two  hours 
of  leisure;  but  few  have  leisure  to  be  miserable. 

FRANCES. — What,  two  hours  of  leisure,  two  hours ! 
and  yet  will  leave  me  with  the  ennui,  the  quintessence  of 
all  ills.  Ah,  Lieutenant,  if  you  have  any  consideration 

126 


for  tny  feelings,  I  pray  you  stay.  Take  this  magazine 
and  fan  me;  while  Captain  Hale  at  my  feet  looks  on  and 
approves.  Now  we  are  contented. 

HALE.  — Exceedingly. 

FRANCES. — Heigh-ho!  I  would  Edith  were  here;  we 
might  then  discourse  of — botany. 

HALE. — What,  has  the  lady  ever  seen  a  rose? 

FRANCES. — And  why  not,  sir? 

HALE. — I  had  thought  she  could  not  see  a  rose  for  the 
canker:  and  yet  the  canker  may  smell  as  sweet  to  her  as 
the  rose. 

FRANCES. — Is  't  possible  wit  is  catching,  that  you  at 
my  feet  have  caught  my  wit  ?  Yet  that  cannot  be,  for 
Lieutenant  Colvin,  at  rny  head,  is  as  silent  as  the  lost. 
But,  indeed,  you  do  the  lady  wrong:  I  cannot  but  remem- 
ber she  labors  to  reform  men. 

HALE. — O  let  her  reform  her  reformation. 

FRANCES. — I  will  not  believe  that  there  is  any  man 
who  is  wholly  bad.  Did  you  ever  know  an  unprinci- 
pled, deliberate  scoundrel,  Lieutenant  Colvin? 

MAURICE. — I  may  have,  Miss  Belmont. 

HALE. — Colvin  will  tell  you  a  story  of  such  an  one,  if 
you  will  but  attend. 

FRANCES. — What,  Lieutenant,  will  you?  or  perhaps 
you  have  already  told  me  of  this  ruffian  ? 

MAURICE. — I  know  not  of  whom  he  speaks. 

HALE. — I  will  take  it  upon  myself.  When  we  were  in 
service,  Miss  Belmont,  a  certain  ex-athlete  insulted  an 
American  lady,  and  Colvin  and  I  summoned  him  before  a 
committee  of  two,  and  all  that  followed  followed  that, 

127 


FRANCES. — Did  you  so?  Lieutenant,  will  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  break  me  two  rose-buds  from  that  bush  ?  and 
many  thanks.  Captain  Hale,  I  pin  this  rose  on  you : 
know  that  it  is  for  chivalry.  Lieutenant  Colvin,  I  pin 
the  mate  on  you  :  know  that  it  is  for  chivalry.  You  are 
my  two  chivalrous  cavaliers  and,  as  you  are  true  gentle- 
men, you  will  never  conflict  the  rose. 

HALE. — By  this  light,  I  will  cherish  it. 

FRANCES. — And  what  says  Lieutenant  Colvin  ? 

MAURICE. — The  rose  is  given. 

FRANCES. — Ah !  "the  rose  is  given". 

HALE. — Doubt  him  not,  Miss  Belmont ;  how  goes  the 
proverb — Few  words  and  many  deeds.  A  homely  phrase, 
but  the  homelier  the  wiser.  Is  it  not  so,  Colvin  ? 

MAURICE. — It  is  said  to  be  so. 

FRANCES. — O  I  am  aweary :  I  marvel  you  will  spin 
such  home-spun  phrases. 

HALE. — My  distaff's  broken  ;  I  spin  nothing. 

FRANCES. — Is  that  "distaff"  the  Greek  of  your  wit  for 
woman  ?  Then  it  is  true  your  distaff  is  broken,  for  I  am 
your  distaff  and  I  am  broken.  Pity  me,  gentlemen. 

HALE. — No,  we  will  not.  If  any  here  has  broken  you 
once,  you  have  broken  him  an  hundred  times :  if  any 
here  has  mocked  you  once,  you  have  mocked  him  past  all 
count  but  the  count  of  the  recording  angel.  The  sum  of 
scorn  is  a  double  sum ;  one  taken  and  one  given. 

FRANCES. — In  the  magazine  Lieutenant  Colvin  is 
fanning  me  with,  there  is  a  story  of  a  traitor  on  the  field. 
What  do  they  do  with  a  traitor  on  the  field,  Captain  Hale, 
— as  it  is  written  ? 

128 


HALE. — As  it  is  written,  if  it  is  written  wisely. 

FRANCES. — Was  there  any  traitor  in  your  regiment  ? 

HALE. — One,  Miss  Belmont. 

FRANCES. — That  must  be  ;  a  war  without  a  traitor  is 
too  good  to  be  true.  Yet  is  a  traitor  on  the  field 
blacker  than  a  traitor  to  humanity  that,  in  the  tale,  the 
traitor  to  his  country  dies,  but  the  traitor  to  humanity, 
his  officer,  prospers  ? 

HALE. — 'Tis  an  incomplete  tale. 

FRANCES. — I  will  believe  it  is — that  Justice  is  the  true 
and  eternal  finis. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

SERVANT. — Miss  Frances,  your  father  would  speak 
with  you. 

FRANCES. — I  thank  you :  I  will  attend.    {.Exit  Servant. 

Gentlemen,  I  will  not  invite  you  in  ;  no,  you  were  too 
willing  to  take  your  leave.  I  say  I  will  not  invite  you 
to  come  into  the  house,  but  here  bid  you  good  day. 

HALE. — We  were  even  now  taking  our  leave ;  then 
there  is  no  offense.  Good  day,  Miss  Belmont.  {Exeunt. 

Scene  2. — A  walk  before  Garland's  house. 
Enter  Garland  and  Kirkwood. 

KlRKWOOD. — 

That  you  shall  prosper  in  this  perjury, 
The  devil  therein  must  use  his  own  too  well 
To  credit  the  belief. 

GARLAND. —          Out  of  my  sight. 

129 


KlRKWOOD. — 

It  is  a  devil's  office  and  a  devil  fills  it. 

Slander  your  ward  who  looked  to  you  for  shield  ! 

If  she  had  had  a  dog  he  had  bit  you. 

What,  slander  the  defenseless  with  foul  lips, 

Befouled  with  kissing  sin  ! 
GARLAND. —  Out  of  my  sight, 

Or  I  will  make  you  rue  't. 
KIRKWOOD. —  There  is  a  tongue 

In  every  inch  a  coward  and  you,  sir, 

Shall  cry  to  heaven  that  this  is  a  lie, 

A  slanderous  lie. 
GARLAND. —          You  are  a  puppy  snarling, 

And  I  will  muzzle  you. 
KIRKWOOD. —       When  you  play  the  dog, 

You  do  't  with  experience. 
GARLAND. — I'll  ha'  the  law. 
KIRKWOOD. —  You  do  mistake  the  law: 

It  is  a  halter  swinging. 
GARLAND. —         Will  you  be  gone? 
KIRKWOOD. — 

Not  till  I  tell  what  devils  think  of  you. 

The  devil  himself  but  naming  you  a  friend 

Does  therein  fall  again. 
GARLAND. —          Respect  my  age. 
KIRKWOOD. — 

Respect  the  devil  for  antiquity. 

O  that  I  knew  that  word  in  twenty  tongues 

To  lash  you  with  'em  all. 

130 


GARLAND. —         You  puppy  there, 
Have  I  not  been  a  father  to  this  girl  ? 
Have  I  not  stood  aside  when  she  would  run  ? 
Have  I  not  made  my  heaviest  hour  a  toy 
For  her  to  cast  away  ?     Have  I  not  been 
A  father  in  all  things  but  in  command  ? 
Which  turns  against  me  now.     Yet  there  you  stand, 
And  call  my  work  in  question  like  a  dog 
In  which  the  power  of  language  has  been  thrust. 

KIRKWOOD. — 

0  give  the  devil  words  and  he  is  risen; 

And  there  's  no  sin  but  where  no  word  may  reach. 
You  made  her  but  your  chattel  till  of  late, 
When  her  appraisement  suffered  sudden  change 
In  her  maturity;  and  with  this  change 
You  torment  her  with  marriage  till  she  's  sick. 
Ha  !  I  have  wondered  for  these  seven  years 
If  that  a  dog  could  speak  what  he  would  say; 
But  since  you  spoke  behind  that  summer  house, 
Outrageously  slandering  your  helpless  ward, 

1  have  not  wondered  more  ;  with  that  I  knew. 

[Exit  Garland. 
How  wise  I  grow  in  his  company. 

Enter  Bernice. 

BKRNICK. — Alas  !  you  have  been  quarrelling  with  Mr. 
Garland:  I  overheard  passionate  words  pass  between  you. 

KIRKWOOD. — No,  sweet,  believe  me,  we  have  not  been 
quarrelling,  not  exactly  quarrelling.  It  was  this  way  : 
your  ex-guardian  was  endeavoring  to  tell  me  what  he  is 

131 


with  my  tongue.  It  was  a  compromise,  Bernice ;  he 
brought  the  subject,  I  brought  the  language  ;  for  what 
says  the  adage — Let  us  help  one  another. 

BERNICE. — For  shame,  Kirk,  for  shame. 

KIRKWOOD. — (Kissing  her}  Ruminate  on  that.  We 
are  to  be  married  to-morrow  :  you  shall  stay  at  Edith 
Prescott's  home  to-night. 

BERNICE. — Have  you  your  father's  approval? 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  with  this  little  axe  behind  me,  I 
cannot  tell  a  lie.  No,  Bernice  :  I  have  not  as  yet  my 
father's  approval,  for  he,  poor  gentleman,  is  laboring 
under  a  mistake. 

BERNICE. — I  will  never  add  to  discord  :  you  must  gain 
your  father's  approval.  He  was  ever  gentle  to  me  :  I 
will  be  considerate  to  him. 

KIRKWOOD. — We  are  like  two  parallel  lines  in  love — 
never  to  meet.  I  have  performed  the  labor  of  Hercules, 
yet  I  am  not  to  enjoy  the  reward  of  Ajax.  Is  't  possible 
you  love  me,  Bernice,  when  you  have  remaining  so  much 
heart  for  others  ?  For  your  sake  I'd  be  sorely  tempted 
to  do  all  things  and  would  do  most  things.  Come, 
sweet,  tell  me  how  much  you  love  me. 

BERNICE. — So  deeply,  Kirk,  I  would  be  nothing 
ignoble. 

KIRKWOOD. — But,  dear  heart,  you  must  no  longer 
abide  beneath  yon  roof;  you  are  unhappy  there.  In 
faith,  I  plucked  you  for  a  red  rose,  but  I  am  like  to  wear 
you  for  a  white  one.  You  must  accept  Edith  Prescott's 
invitation  and  live  at  her  home  till  I  remove  these  pillars 
of  Hercules,  I  mean  the  mistake  my  father  is  laboring 
under. 

132 


BERNICE. — It  is  iny  intention,  now  I  am  come  of  age. 
Will  you  walk  in  and  see  Mildred  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Since  that  same   griffin -guardian  is  not 
within,  I  will  enter  the  castle;  and  the  word  is — 
Open  gates, 
A  soldier  waits.  {Exeunt. 

Scene  3. — A  lawn  before  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Hale  and  Frances. 

HALE. — 

Miss  Belrnont,  pardon  me;  nor  be  distressed 
That  I  thus  follow  on  my  recent  speech 
And  sweet  response.     Go  to  your  memory, 
And  know  you  promised  at  some  future  time 
To  satisfy  this  doubt  as  whether  you 
Will  be  my  wife  or  no.     Is  that  time  come  ?  — 
Since  I  know  not  the  tenure  of  this  bond — 
Or  may  I  hope  to  know  or  soon  or  late  ? 
Or  have  my  hopes  gone  by  upon  the  night? 

FRANCES. — 

0  pardon  me  ;  I  am  subdued  to  doubt 
And  may  not  speak.     A  little  longer  pause, 
And  then  the  bond  is  broken. 

HALE. —  You  speak  from  grief, 

Veiling  a  sorrow  in  hushed  courtesy; 

Then,  dearest  lady,  let  me  not  intrude. 
FRANCES. — Another's  sorrow  is  another's  still. 
HALE. — I  make  your  griefs  my  own. 
FRANCES. —  Yet  leave  me  now; 

1  am  not  well. 


HALE. —  Then  I  am  poor  indeed 

In  having  health  yet  having  not  the  power 

To  use  it  as  I  would. 
FRANCES. —  A  dream  sticks  at  my  heart 

And  will  not  off. 
HALE. —  What  is  't  you  dream  of  grief? 

I  would  not  have  you  grieve  within  a  dream. 
FRANCES. — 

It  is  not  what  I  dream  but  what  I  live. 

I'd  rather  live  a  dream,  an  hideous  dream, 

Than  dream  of  what  I  live.     I  speak  too  far. 

Indeed,  I  do  but  dream;  yet  can  each  day 

Banish  what  the  night  has  feared  ? 
HALE. —  Tell  me  your  dream, 

And  I'll  interpret  it  full  fair. 
FRANCES. —          O,  Daniel, 

Beware  interpreting  another's  dream 

L,est  3'ou  interpret  your  own.     But  look  you,  sir, 

Do  I  not  smile  you  off? 
HALE. —  A  subdued  smile. 

FRANCES. — 

In  truth,  that  smile  's  a  book  :  read  it  who  can. 

If  grief  inscribed  the  text,  let  sorrow  read  it, 

If  joy  inscribed  the  text,  let  gladness  read  it. 

0  take  my  words  but  as  a  woman's  words, 
Spoken  that  more  may  follow  ;  even  thus. 

1  am  disconsolate  :  I  know  not  why  ; 
There  is  no  reason  that  I  should  be  so. 
I  am  not  merry,  yet  I  know  not  why ; 
There  is  no  reason  that  I  should  be  so. 
Touching  that  consubstantial  suit  of  yours, 
Have  patience,  sir. 

i34 


HALE.  —  So,  I  must  be  content? 

FRANCKS.  —  Content  with  patience? 
HALE.  —  No,  with  that  sad  smile. 

FRANCES.  —  What,  will  you  have  me  smile  again? 
HAL,E.  —  I  mean 

I  must  be  ignorant  of  your  distress  — 

Content  with  ignorance. 
FRANCES.  —          Adieu,  adieu. 
HALE.  — 

Miss  Osborn  is  addressed  ;  she  takes  my  place. 

I  would  have  eyes  to  see  what  is  behind 

And  meet  it  with  my  strength,  but  I'm  dismissed. 


Enter  Laura. 

LAURA.  —  Frances,  my  truest  friend. 
FRANCES.  —  Laura,  is  't  you? 

How  is  't  with  you  ? 
LAURA.  —  Most  kind. 

FRANCES.  —  'Tis  well,  'tis  well. 

O  when  shall  you  be  married,  tell  me  that. 
LAURA.  —  I  cannot  say.     Is  Maurice  at  your  home? 
FRANCES.  —  You  know  he  's  not. 
LAURA.  —  How  do  I  know  he  's  not? 

My  knowledge  questions  this. 
FRANCES.  —  How  may  that  be? 

He  's  not  my  father's  guest  of  late. 
LAURA.  —  Indeed  ! 

Perchance  he  's  yours  ? 
FRANCES.  —  Laura,  what  do  you  mean? 


LAURA. — 

0  I  mistook  you  for  that  false  coquette 
Whose  features  and  whose  manner  different 
Have  stolen  Maurice's  love.     O  pardon  me, 

1  took  you  for  that  Frances. 
FRANCES. —  Alas,  what  's  this  ! 
LAURA. — A  woman  wronged  ! 
FRANCES. —  O,  Laura,  Laura,  Laura  ! 
LAURA. — 

What  has  he  seen  in  that  false  face  of  yours  ? 
What  does  the  fly  see  in  the  spider's  eye? 
How  have  you  rooted  out  his  constancy  ? 
This  constancy  I  still  believed  my  own — 
But  this  was  'fore  I  knew  my  friend. 

FRANCES. —  O  me, 

Where  now  is  that  sweet  faith  and  sisterhood, 
That  love  that  did  not  weary.     O,  sweet  friend, 
Lay  not  this  deed  to  me.     I  am  so  grieved 
I  cannot  make  defense. 

LAURA. —  My  ears  are  stopped. 

Have  I  not  seen  this  most  ingenuous  shame, 
Foul  treason,  ripening  without  a  blush  ? 
He  hastens  from  my  side  to  come  to  you, 
And  siren-like  you  draw  him  hour  by  hour 
While  I  am  left  to  know.     Take  up  your  shame, 
I've  nursed  it  till  it  stings.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. —  Poor  unschooled  heart. 

Enter  Maurice. 

136 


MAURICE. — 

Shall  I  be  answered  in  my  grounded  suit  ? 
Or  shall  the  tale  be  told  ?     Deny  that  suit, 
'Tis  not  alone  the  law  condemns  your  father 
But  society  dishonors  3^011. 

FRANCES. —          Then  it  is  true 

I  must  forget  my  hopes.     Have  you  no  fear  ? 
No  pity  ?  no  friendship  ? 

MAURICE. —          Pity  I've  not, 

Unless  I  have  your  heart  to  pity  with  : 

Your  beauty  has  killed  most  of  that  in  me 

And  I  have  killed  the  rest.     Fear  I  have  not ; 

Nor  know  I  what  'tis  like.     Friendship  I  've  not, 

For  this  I  have  foregone  for  deeper  stuff : 

When  first  I  looked  on  you  and  heard  your  voice 

I  fell  into  an  adoration,  thence 

Into  a  longing,  thence  into  a  fever, 

Thence  to  a  scheming,  and  by  this  declension 

Into  this  sin  wherein  you  find  me  still. 

Nor  think  because  I  call  it  sin  I  pause  : 

Sin  is  become  a  word  to  me,  no  more  ; 

A  syllable  from  some  fast-fading  dream 

Caught  up  to  be  rejected  without  sense 

Or  meaning  in  this  world  wherein  I  act. 

FRANCES. — 

Is  then  the  conscience  dead,  and  stand  I  here 
Environed  by  your  person  and  your  speech  ? 
Most  bitter  and  most  cruel. 

MAURICE. —          Come,  answer  me  : 
To  be  my  wife  or  give  your  father  up 
To  the  condemning  law  ?  that  breath  to  sow 
Dishonor  in  the  general  ear. 

137 


FRANCES. —          0  shame ! 

Turn  from  the  deed  and  profit  like  a  man 

May  profit  every  day — by  being  a  man. 

Sell  not  your  honor  for  this  paltry  sum  : 

Make  not  the  sacred  altar  but  a  block  : 

Stain  not  that  awful  fabric  of  your  soul ; 

The  finer  spirit  dare  the  least  offend 

Being  more  variously  touched. 
MAURICE. —          This  is  the  truth 

And  is  not  you  :  I  am  not  here  for  truth 

Only  for  you. 
FRANCES. —  Lose  not  that  finer  part 

That  makes  division  'tween  me  and  the  less: 

Sell  not  your  judgment  for  the  thing  that's  judged; 

The  genius  for  the  painting.     O  be  kind, 

And  kindness  shall  suffice. 
MAURICE. —          Let  it  suffice 

When  I  am  kind. 
FRANCES. —  O  look  beyond  the  deed: 

If  beauty  be  the  price  set  on  your  truth, 

Know  that  you  sell  your  truth  for  that  base  clod 

That  lies  beneath  your  feet ;  so  shall  I  be 

Ere  you  can  cleanse  your  heart. 
MAURICE. —          This  will  suffice: 

Your  father  falls. 
FRANCES. —  O  I  do  part  believe 

An  honored  name  will  prove  a  slanderer's  bane. 

MAURICE. — 

Humanity  down,  perjury  becomes  its  truth 
And  truth  its  perjury ;  an  angel's  evidence 

138 


Is  discredited,  but  calumny  in  the  lowest 
Can  bring  it  lower.     Doubt  not  this  is  so, 
The  truth  as  experience  has  writ  it  down. 
FRANCES. — To  suffer  all  things  is  to  believe  all  things. 

MAURICE. — 

Think  that  I  sought  you  in  the  better  way 
As  men  seek  what  they  love:  fortune  I  have 
Of  no  unworthy  rate  :  station  I  have  : 
Accomplishments  as  bounteous  as  the  schools: 
Intelligence,  refinement,  gentle  blood: 
An  honor  tainted  only  in  my  love — 
One  who  is  fallen  as  your  father  fell, 
Repenting  ere  the  injury  was  done, 
Remorseful  in  the  deed,  stricken  when  past; 
But  pushed  by  that  necessity  of  sin 
Which  makes  us  all  offending  ;  that  first  sin 
That  's  less  a  sin  than  an  experience 
And  birth  of  our  remorse. 

FRANCES. —  Brave  sin  economist. 

O  spare  not  sin  that  it  beget  remorse 

And  works  of  repentance. 
MAURICE. —          Choose,  and  so  end. 
FRANCES. — You  know  my  answer. 
MAURICE. —          You  will  be  my  wife  ? 
FRANCES. — No  :  never,  never,  never  ! 
MAURICE. —          Then  'tis  done  : 

Your  father  shall  be  ruined,  your  name  dishonored. 
FRANCES. — 

O  when  you  stand  beyond  this  evil  deed 

Remember  that  an  angel  stood  by  you 

139 


Upon  the  better  side  and  bid  you  pause, 
The  conscience  and  the  human  heart  divine. 

Enter  Belmont  at  a  distance. 

MAURICE. — lyOok  where  your  father  is.     I  go  my  way, 

FRANCES. — Stay,  do  not  go. 

MAURICE. —          Why  should  I  longer  pause? 

FRANCES. — I  do  consent.  [Exit  Belmont. 

MAURICE. —          You  are  apparelled  ;  come. 

FRANCES. — 

With  due  ceremony  let  the  deed  be  done  : 

Let  Heaven  be  offended,  but  not  men, 

For  there  is  light  and  here  it  is  all  dark, 

And  human  judgment  is  a  woman's  life. 

A  little  longer  pause  that  we  may  cast 

The  mantle  of  ceremony  o'er  that  block 

Where  women  still  are  sold  to  slavery 

As  base  as  ever  known,  and  make  the  church 

The  whited  sepulcher  so  fair  without 

But  foul  as  death  within.     Go,  learn  your  trade. 

[Exit  Maurice. 

My  beauty  comes  between  me  and  the  light. 
I  cannot  doubt  it  now  ;  and  once  'tis  stript 
He  will  no  longer  press  this  heavy  suit : 
And  when  I  am  deformed  he  will  be  dumb, 
Since  I  can  hold  dishonor  'gainst  dishonor, 
Against  my  father's  ruin  set  this  shame 
Of  seeking  me  in  marriage  thus  most  foul; 
While  fear  of  honor  will  o'ersway  revenge. 
My  beauty  is  a  prison  which  once  down 
My  father  is  released.     O,  cruel  bars, 

140 


I'll  break  you  one  by  one  :  beauty,  begone, 

You  that  was  still  a  household  word  to  me — 

And  yet  I  saw  no  serpent  in  that  word — 

Begone  I  say.     If  vitriol  has  that  power 

To  kill  you  in  the  flower,  I  've  that  will 

To  root  you  out  and  this  cruel  serpent  kill.     [Exit. 

Scene  4. — A  street. 

Enter  Fairfield  and  Foote. 

FAIRFIELD. — Stand  aside,  Foote,  and  give  me  room  to 
laugh. 

FooTK. — Why,  what  's  the  matter  now?  I  thought 
you  were  up  at  the  hall  initiating  a  new  member  into  our 
destiny  league. 

FAIRFIELD. — Faith,  no;  young  Belmont  has  slipped 
into  my  mask  and  he  's  initiating  Garland  now,  beating 
him  like  an  old  carpet. 

FOOTE. — I  had  a  box  of  cigars  from  Kirk  wood  for 
voting  for  that  initiation  bill.  What  was  the  bug  in  't  ? 

FAIRFIEUX — There  's  a  tale's  tale.  Do  you  think  this 
destiny  league  was  founded  to  convict  the  public  ? 

FOOTE. — Why,  so  it  has  the  better  part :  that  official 
organ  of  ours  is  in  the  seventh  edition.  'Tis  the  emanci- 
pation of  destiny. 

FAIRFIELD. — By  this  time  Garland  should  be  riding 
the  ram  of  Atropos  in  the  sign  of  Lachesis.  That  's  the 
twenty-fourth  degree:  eight  more  degrees  to  follow  and  a 
warm  evening. 

141 


FOOTK. — This  is  destiny  and  to  boot. 
FAIRFIELD. — Tut,  we  have  the  law  and  the  laugh  on 
our  side  ;  may  the  good  work  go  on. 

FooTK. — All  is  fate.     Come  up.  {Exeunt. 

Scene  5. — A  lawn  before  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Lambert. 

LAMBERT. — Now  was  that  Lucretia  or  Belmont's  sister 
I  passed  at  the  gate?  Hair  o'  gold,  violet  eyes:  why, 
she  exceeds  conjecture.  But  Lucretia  is  ethereal  eighteen, 
while  this  young  lady  must  be  some  older.  However, 
I  'm  no  judge  of  a  woman's  age  under  forty-five,  and 
then  it  goes  hard  if  she  keeps  her  bust. 

Enter  Lucretia. 

LUCRETIA. — (Aside)  La,  here  is  my  paramour. 

LAMBERT. — Is  Miss  Lucretia  Floyd  within  the  house, 
Miss? 

LUCRETIA. — No,  sir:  that  lady  just  stepped  out  of 
the  premises. 

LAMBERT. — (Aside)  Jove,  it  was  Lucretia  I  saw  at 
the  gate  :  what  a  lucky  fellow  I  am.  When  Miss  Lucretia 
Floyd  returns  will  you  oblige  me  by  giving  her  these 
flowers  and  this  box  of  confectionery  ?  and  here's  a  dollar 
for  you,  Miss,  for  yellow  ribbons  or  hosiery. 

LUCRETIA. — Sir,  retain  your  advances  for  the  retinue. 
I  will  accept  the  flowers  and  confectionery :  when  Miss 
Lucretia  Floyd  returns  she  shall  possess  them  and  render 
her  compliments. 

142 


LAMBERT. — (Aside)  Sure  the  Belmonts  must  pay  their 
servants  in  dictionaries;  or  else  she  gets  this  of  Lucretia, 
for  her  letters  are  passion  in  six  syllables. 

LUCRETIA.  —  May  this  confectionery  be  chocolate 
creams  ? 

LAMBERT. — Yes,  Miss,  chocolate  creams. 

LUCRETIA. — La,  the  lady  is  so  fond  of  chocolate  creams; 
the  darkest  chocolate  cream  has  a  white  heart.  These 
particular  flowers,  sir,  have  an  exquisite  aroma:  I  am  so 
fond  of  violets  and  lilies  of  the  valley. 

LAMBERT. —  (Aside)  Why,  she  has  actually  smelt 
them !  She  will  be  eating  the  chocolates  next  and  calling 
me  "  Lamb".  But,  Miss,  will  you  not  take  them  in  and 
put  them  in  a  vase  of  water?  I  would  not  have  them 
fade  before  the  lady  has  them  for  a  pearl  of  Ind. 

LUCRETIA. — La,  how  romantic  you  talk.  Do  you  re- 
ciprocate the  lady  so  passionately  ? 

LAMBERT. — (Aside)  I  must  not  offend  her  or  she  will 
put  me  out  with  Lucretia's  guardian.  Here,  Miss,  is  a 
pretty  ring  I  brought  from  the  war :  let  me  put  it  on  your 
hand.  You  will  be  my  friend  ?  (Pitts  the  ring  on 
Lucretia's  finger). 

LUCRETIA. — La,  sir,  you  have  placed  it  on  my  nuptial 
finger. 

LAMBERT. — (Aside)  Her  nuptial  thumb.  What  next? 
Do  we  agree  now,  Miss  ? 

LUCRETIA. — "Till  death  do  us  part." 

LAMBERT. — Why,  what  the  devil — 
Enter  Kirkwood. 

O,  get  into  the  house  !  here  is  Kirk  !  get  in  !  Jove ! 

[Exit  Lucretia. 
143 


KIRKWOOD. — O,  Lambert,  Lambert,  I  tremble  for  you. 

LAMBERT. — No,  believe  me,  Kirk,  I  didn't  take  her  in 
my  confidence:  I  was  "sly,"  as  you  say;  " peculiarly 
sly." 

KIRKWOOD. — Will  you  do  it,  really  ? 

LAMBERT. — No,  Kirk,  as  you  love  me,  believe  me.  I 
asked  her  if  she  knew  her  mother,  I  mean  her  grand- 
mother, I  mean — O,  the  devil,  can't  you  give  a  lover  a 
little  rope?  I  mean  liberty,  Kirk,  liberty. 

KIRKWOOD. — And  did  she  show  you  the  picture  of 
Lucretia  ? 

LAMBERT. — No  :  but  she  showed  me  something  better; 
the  sweet  original. 

KIRKWOOD. — No. 

LAMBERT. — Yes. 

KIRKWOOD. — No,  I  say. 

LAMBERT. — I  say,  she  did. 

KIRKWOOD. — Well :  and  what  do  you  think  of  the 
sweet  original  ? 

LAMBERT. — Ravishing !  hair  o'  gold,  violet  eyes. 
Why,  man,  she  exceeds  conjecture. 

KIRKWOOD. — (Aside)  Frances. 

LAMBERT. — But,  my  good  fellow,  tell  me  this:  why  did 
you  not  keep  Lucretia  for  yourself  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Zounds,  sir,  I  'm  a  man  of  honor.  But 
how  came  this  little  wench  to  show  Lucretia  to  you  ? 

LAMBERT. — Why,  to  be  precise,  she  did  not;  she  mere- 
ly sustained  me  in  a  lover's  intuition.  I  passed  an  angel 
at  the  gate,  and  when  I  asked  this  little  wench  if  Miss 
Lucretia  Floyd  was  in,  she  said  that  Lucretia  had  but 

144 


that  moment  quit  the  house,  and  then  I  knew  this  angel 
at  the  gate  was  Lucretia  herself. 

KIRKWOOD. — So  it  was  in  this  manner  you  first  saw 
your  angel.  Let  me  congratulate  you,  Lambert,  in  the 
love  of  Miss  Lucretia  Floyd. 

LAMBERT. — I  accept  your  congratulations.  May  she 
have  a  twin  sister  who  shall  become  your  bride. 

KIRKWOOD. — Thanks,  Lambert,  thanks.  But  hold,  I 
have  something  for  you  :  I  brought  it  down  to  your  room 
but  you  were  out.  Here,  take  it,  take  it ;  cherish  it, 
cherish  it.  (Gives  Lambert  a  small  parcel.) 

LAMBERT. — In  tissue  !     What  is  't,  a  jewel  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Ay,  ay,  Lucretia' s  garter. 

LAMBERT. — Lucretia 's  garter ! 

KIRKWOOD. — Now,  Lambert,  you  are  a  knight  of  the 
garter  and  Honi  soil  qui  mal  y  pense;  which,  translated 
from  the  vulgar,  means,  "  Shame  to  him  who  evil  thinks." 

LAMBERT. — I  take  it  with  protestation. 

KIRKWOOD. — You  take  this  with  protestation,  yet  take 
the  lady  and  the  mate  without  protestation  ?  Be  easy. 

LAMBERT. — I'll  wear  it  over  my  heart.  But,  Kirk, 
cannot  you  find  some  finer  speeches  for  Lucretia  than 
those  cheap  things  I  spoke  last  time  ?  and  something  in 
prose  ;  poetry  is  hell. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  will,  Lambert,  I  will.  Give  me  your 
hand :  I  will  be  both  good  angel  and  godfather  to  you. 

LAMBERT. — Godfather!  Have  you  no  sentiment?  no 
delicacy  of  feeling  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Tut,  do  not  fall  back  on  forgotten  senti- 
ment. Why,  yes,  I  will  be  faithful  even  in  twins. 

LAMBERT. — Twins  ! 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  man,  there  's  no  more  harm  in 
triplets  than  in  three  white  roses  on  one  stem.  What 

145 


teapot  have  you  been  sailing  to  get  this  queasy  stomach  ? 
All  is  nature;  a  sextuple  itself  is  nature,  for  what  says 
the  adage,  Nature  is  nature  in  maximum  and  minimum 
and  suffers  no  detriment  by  nature.  Go,  write  that 
golden  phrase  over  the  nursery  :  Nature  is  nature  in 
maximum  and  minimum  and  suffers  no  detriment  by 
nature. 

LAMBERT. — Jove,  Kirk,  you  're  the  better  part  brain 
and,  if  it's  a  boy,  I'll  name  him  after  you. 

KIRKWOOD. — I  call  this  a  burthen  of  gratitude.  But 
say  no  more,  Lambert,  say  no  more.  Come  up  to  my 
room  :  I  have  some  speeches  for  you  to  memorize.  You 
speak  them  to-morrow  night  beneath  lyucretia's  window, 
and  then  elope.  The  spirit  is  willing  and  the  flesh  is 
waiting.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  i. — A  ballroom. 

Belmont,  Colvin,  Hale,  Maurice,  a  German,  a  Lieutenant, 
Frances,  Laura,  Conductor  and  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  in  Cotillion, 
and  others,  discovered. 

COLVIN. — Maurice,  a  word  before  the  next  dance. 

MAURICE. — Uncle,  is  't  you?  How,  I  did  not  know 
you  had  returned. 

COLVIN. — But  an  hour  since,  and  hearing  you  had 
attended  this  dance— 

MAURICE. — How  long  have  you  been  here? 

146 


COLVIN. — A  few  moments. 

MAURICE. — Then,  sir,  you  have  not  yet  met  General 
Belmont  ? 

COLVIN. — No  :  but  for  that  purpose  I  am  here.  Which 
is  he? 

MAURICE. — (Aside)  If  he  meet  Belmont,  I  am  ruined. 
I  must  deceive  him. 

COLVIN. — He  is  present,  I  understand. 

MAURICE. — Present?  yes,  yes.  Yonder  he  stands  be- 
side the  evergreen. 

COLVIN. — How,  the  gentleman  with  the  eyeglasses? 

MAURICE. — So.  But  do  not  ask  for  an  introduction 
to-night :  I  must  get  my  place.  You  shall  meet  him  later. 

COLVIN. — Assuredly  this  is  not  my  old  schoolfellow. 
His  stature  alone  discredits  it. 

MAURICE. — Do  you  stay  ?     I  am  called. 

COLVIN. — No  :  I  will  take  my  leave.  Good  night, 
Maurice. 

MAURICE. — Good  night,  sir.  [Exit  Colvin. 

(Aside)  'Twill  serve,  'twill  serve.  I  must  marry  the 
daughter  before  he  meets  the  father.  [Retires. 

(A  Figure  and  Waltz:  music]. 

BELMONT. — (Advances)  Why,  sir,  do  you  not  join  in 
the  waltz  ;  cannot  you  find  a  partner  ?  Engage  a  lady. 
What,  a  soldier  and  a  wall-flower? 

LIEUTENANT. — Sir,  had  I  been  told  at  one-and-twenty 
I  should  be  a  Lieutenant  at  six-and-twenty,  I  would  have 
learned  to  lead  a  cotillion.  As  it  is,  I  know  not  the  steps. 

BELMONT. — For  a  soldier  to  dance  is  high  policy  in 
army  polity. 

i47 


LIEUTENANT. — Have  you  a  daughter  here,  may  I  ask? 

BELMONT. — Ay,  one  daughter. 

LIEUTENANT. — Sir,  though  she  's  as  fair  as  the  Three 
Graces,  there  is  present  a  fairer  lady. 

BELMONT. — Which  is  she,  Lieutenant? 

LIEUTENANT. — Why,  the  Conductor's  partner ;  Miss 
Belmont,  daughter  of  General  Belmont. 

BELMONT. — As  I  am  an  old  soldier,  she  is  a  fair  lady. 
Can  you  point  me  out  General  Belmont  himself,  Lieu- 
tenant ?  I  would  meet  the  General :  I  have  a  son  of 
three-and-twenty  ;  I  would  have  such  a  sweet  lady  for 
daughter. 

Enter  Colvin. 

LIEUTENANT. — Yonder  he  stands  behind  Mr.  Colvin, 
the  gentleman  who  just  entered  :  him  with  the  eye- 
glasses. I  overheard  Lieutenant  Colvin  recognize  him 
as  General  Belmont.  I  will  mark  the  waltz. 

BELMONT. — Stay:  is  that  elderly  gentleman  kin  to 
Lieutenant  Colvin  ? 

LIEUTENANT. — An  uncle  to  Lieutenant  Colvin. 

BELMONT. — Are  you  positive  ? 

LIEUTENANT. — I  am. 

BELMONT. — Perhaps  you  overheard  some  one  desig- 
nate him  as  a  Colvin  and  an  uncle  to  Lieutenant  Colvin, 
and  are  mistaken? 

LIEUTENANT.  -No,  sir,  I  have  known  him  several 
years.  Excuse  me,  I  will  mark  the  dance.  [Retires. 

BELMONT. — {Aside)  How  like  this  Colvin  is  to  that 
Colvin  who  held  me  guilty  of  his  son's  death.  It  is  sure- 
ly the  brother  of  Richard  Colvin,  and,  if  I  am  discovered 

148 


by  him,  he  will  charge  me  with  his  brother's  death,  dis- 
honoring my  children.     O  man's  mistaking  of  man  ! 

[Exit. 

COIWIN. — {Advances)  {Aside)  I  will  speak  with  this 
Belmont  and  ascertain  his  place  of  birth.  I  may  be  mis- 
taken in  his  stature.  Here  he  comes. 

GERMAN. — {Advances)  Can  you  tell  me,  sir,  who  is 
the  Leader's  lady  ?  she  queens  it  visibly. 

COLVIN. — I  am  in  ignorance.  Go  to  the  young  men 
for  the  name  of  the  fairest. 

GERMAN. — 'Tis  well  led,  'tis  well  led  :  but  the  cotillion 
is  conducted  some  different  on  the  Continent. 

COLVIN. — Do  you  come  from  the  Continent,  may  I  ask? 

GERMAN. — I  am  a  German.  Pardon  me,  I  will  speak 
with  my  daughter.  [Retires. 

COLVIN. — {Aside)  A  German  !  Then  Maurice  is  right; 
this  is  not  Robert  Belmont,  my  old  schoolfellow.  I  won- 
der if  he  lives  and  still  believes  the  world  holds  him 
guilty  of  my  death.  It  seems  I  shall  never  know.  {Exit. 

{Enter  an  attendant  with  flags  and 
gives  them  to  the  Conductor. 

FRANCES. — {Advances  with  Conductor)  Are  we  to  have 
the  flag  figure  ? 

CONDUCTOR. — What,  are  we  not  soldiers  and  the  lovers 
of  soldiers? 

FRANCES. — I  grant  these  are  soldiers,  if  the  officers 
can  be  called  soldiers,  and  lovers  of  soldiers  ;  but  the 
ladies,  sir,  are  not  the  lovers. 

CONDUCTOR. — Which,  then,  are  the  lovers? 

FRANCES. — Why,  the  soldiers  ;  do  they  not  love  them- 
selves ? 

149 


CONDUCTOR. — You  are  bitter  to-night.  Has  the  ar- 
rangement of  the  figures  displeased  you  ? 

FRANCES. — No,  truly,  'tis  I  am  weary. 

CONDUCTOR. — Can  triumph  weary  ? 

FRANCES. — Ay,  I  am  crowned,  but  what  of  these 
un-crowned. 

CONDUCTOR. — You  acknowledge  the  triumph  ? 

FRANCES. — No,  I  acknowledge  the  victory. 

[Hale  advances. 

CONDUCTOR. — I  must  instruct  the  inexperienced  and 
distribute  my  flags.  You  shall  distribute  yours  when 
you  are  rested.  Till  then  I  leave  you  with  Captain  Hale. 

[Retires. 

FRANCES. — Sir,  he  has  left  me  with  you.  Will  you 
oblige  a  disease  by  catching  it  ? 

HALE. — Are  beauty  and  triumph  ever  bitter? 

FRANCES. — Are  the  foolish  ever  wise? 

HALE. — Even  a  fool  can  admire. 

FRANCES. — I  will  listen  for  that.  Come,  tell  me  of 
my  beauty ;  no  one  overhears :  nothing  but  "  beauty  "  to- 
night. Come,  speak  ;  if  you  ever  flattered,  flatter  now. 

HALE. — Cannot  beauty  see  itself  with  eyes  that  are  its 
soul? 

FRANCES. — Can  the  eye  see  the  eye  ? 

HALE. — Yet  beauty  can  see  its  image  though  the  eye 
cannot  see  the  eye,  for  beauty  lies  in  the  judgment  of 
others,  and  the  mirror  of  beauty  is  compliment. 

FRANCES. — Then,  though  I  lose  my  beauty,  I  shall  be 
fair  while  men  praise? 

150 


HALE. — The  memory  of  your  beauty  will  exceed  the 
beauty  of  others.  The  hushed  lark  is  sweeter  than  the 
singing  linnet. 

FRANCES. — Now  is  the  rose  of  compliment  full  blown  ; 
and  even  now  it  'gins  to  wither. 

HALE. — There  is  a  budding  rose  in  the  canker ;  as  my 
compliment  withers  my  love  buds. 

FRANCES. — Is  it  only  budding  ?  I  will  have  love  full 
blown.  Speak  figures,  for  here  is  the  thief  of  love. 

MAURICE. — (Advances)  The  military  flag  march  fol- 
lows, Miss  Belmont. 

FRANCES. — And  then  the  crow  Night  shall  feed  her 
ravens.  Is  not  that  a  hungry  figure  ? 

HALE. — This  hungry  figure  shall  followT  the  flag  march. 

FRANCES. — No,  no;  it  is  written,  "On  with  the  dance." 
Which  shall  it  be,  Lieutenant  ? 

MAURICE. — As  it  is  written. 

FRANCES. — Then,  on  with  the  dance.  O  my  eyes  ache 
counting  the  wall-flowers.  Since  Hannibal's  cavaliers 
cooled  their  dancing  heels  in  the  Alps,  I  know  of  no  war 
in  which  so  few  of  the  soldiers  could  dance.  I  will  open 
a  dancing  school  and  instruct  these  mock  cavaliers,  or 
may  never  morrow  dawn  on  my  beauty. 

CONDUCTOR. — (Advances)  Miss  Belmont,  you  will 
please  distribute  these  duplicate  flags  to  the  gentlemen. 
(Gives  Frances  flags) . 

FRANCES. — Treason,  sir,  treason  !  here  is  the  flag  of 
Spain  against  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 

CONDUCTOR. — Ho !  let  the  Arnold  be  searched  out. 


FRANCES. — Hush !  hush  !  on  with  the  dance.  Captain 
Hale,  take  Old  Glory  under  which  you  fought  so  gal- 
lantly. (Gives  Hale  an  American  flag).  Lieutenant 
Colvin,  to  you  the  flag  of  Spain  ;  dance  under  that. 
(Gives  Maurice  a  Spanish  flag).  To  the  rest  as  it  please 
a  woman.  [Retires. 

HALE. — You  have  it  full,  Colvin  :  can  you  bear  it  out? 

MAURICE. — Let  the  period  attest. 

{Music;  military  flag  march;  then  dance,  etc. 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN. — {Advances  with  Second  Gentle- 
man} A  patriotic  march  that. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN. — A  politic  dance  of  nations — 
each  with  itself.  Did  you  mark  hov/  they  put  Lieutenant 
Colvin  under  the  flag  of  Spain  ? 

FIRST  GENTLEMAN. — A  grim  honor  i'  the  eye  o'  the 

time.     Come,  the  dance  is  ended. 

{Then  retire. 

FRANCES  {Advances  with  Hale)  Cannot  you  find  my 
father? 

HALE. —  He  is  gone  ; 

But  I  will  be  your  cavalier  to-night 

And  see  you  to  your  rest. 
FRANCES. —  The  first  in  praise 

Seize  on  my  hand. 
HALE. —  Am  I  not  first  in  praise, 

And  first  in  love? 

FRANCES. —  And  first  in  jealousy. 

HALE. — 

Let  me  not  praise  you  as  we  praise  a  star 

In  the  immeasurable  heavens,  too  far  to  hear; 

152 


But  even  as  the  wind  may  praise  a  shell 
Which  makes  that  praise  its  music. 

FRANCES. —  This  is  sweet, 

But  is  it  love  platonic  ? 

HALE. —  Love  platonic ! 

In  your  fair  eyes  the  ineffectual  fire 
Of  his  ideal  'gins  to  pale  for  death: 
Before  your  lightest  breath  his  works  are  chaff. 
Plato  makes  not  a  letter  in  your  name. 
A  living  woman  for  a  dead  philosopher 
Is  the  new  enlightenment,  to  whose  articles 
I  am  subscribed. 

FRANCES. —  Indeed  !  you  are  forsworn. 

You  swore  our  love  should  be  platonic  love: 
The  oath  is  not  yet  cold. 

HALE. —  The  oath  was  love's: 

To  please  the  one  I  love  I  forswore  love; 
And  love  forsworn  for  love  's  a  triple  bond 
Of  love,  of  kindness,  and  of  charity. 

FRANCES. — 

Now  night  has  snuffed  the  wick  of  all  pastime 
And  leaves  us  darkling  :  ended  is  the  dance, 
Ended  the  music  and  the  passioned  maze, 
Ended  the  compliment  and  triumph  sweet. 
Good  night,  good  night. 

HALE. —  Bid  good  morrow  to  pleasure. 

FRANCES. — 

It  is  the  heart  that  makes  occasions  deep: 
To  these  this  is  a  dance  and  nothing  more, 
An  occupation  for  a  skipping  toe; 
But  I  have  tasted  that  within  the  wine 
Of  which  the  heart  drinks  deep. 


HALE.  —  Give  it  a  name. 

FRANCES.  —  Not  "love". 

HALE.—  Not  "love"? 

FRANCES.  —  Perchance  '  '  platonic  love  '  '. 

Once  more  search  for  my  father  while  I  wait. 

HALE.  —  Now  I  am  humble  yet  I  dare  obey.   {Retires. 

FRANCES.  —  (Aside) 

Then  farewell  beauty,  farewell  compliment; 
And  you,  too,  chivalry,  and  you,  triumph: 
To-morrow  I  must  wake  with  face  deformed 
To  shield  my  father  from  this  traitor  friend, 
For  what  is  noble  that  I  think  is  true, 
And  what  is  noble  that  I  mean  to  do. 

HALE.  —  (Advances.)  I'm  told  your  father  's  gone. 

FRANCES.  —  Serve  in  his  stead 

And  see  me  home. 

HALE.  —  A  crown  to  pleasure's  crown. 


Scene  2.  —  A  hall. 

Garland,  Fairfield,  Kirk  wood,  Foote,  Bernice,  Edith,  and 
Members  of  Destiny  League  discovered. 

MEMBER.  —  Why  did  Garland  take  the  floor?  no  one 
heeds  him. 

FOOTE.  —  He  always  addresses  himself;  'tis  no  matter. 
The  politicians  call  him  Old  Prolixity. 

MEMBER.  —  Look  you,  the  playful  Belmont  has  taken 
the  floor. 

FOOTE.  —  He  will  keep  it  ;  there  's  no  appeal  from  the 
Chair. 

154 


MEMBER. — What  's  that  good  for?  all  is  fate.  This 
Belmont  takes  the  floor  like  ati  Apache — for  a  scalp. 

FOOTE. — But  Garland  takes  the  floor  like  Father  Time 
— till  doomsday. 

MEMBER. — If  it  be  to  damn,  he  conies  prepared. 

FOOTE. — Sure,  Kirkwood  is  going  to  damn  some  one — 
the  hour  sits  so  easy  on  him.  Mark  you,  he  will  take 
nothing  serious  in  the  argument  that  his  opponent  shall 
not  be  taken  serious. 

KIRKWOOD. — Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  League, 
Nebuchadnezzar,  king  of  Babylon,  in  the  fulness  of  his 
wisdom,  said,  Grass  is  where  you  get  it :  I  say,  Truth 
is  where  you  find  it. 

FOOTE. — That  's  well  balanced. 

KIRKWOOD. — A  John  is  not  so  young  but  his  words 
should  be  digested,  nor  a  Machiavel  so  old  but  his  argu- 
ment should  be  resolved.  There  is  a  motion  before  the 
committee  as  to  whether  it  is  not  wiser  this  league  dis- 
continue its  official  organ  ;  a  motion  proposed  by  that 
honorable  member,  Mr.  Garland.  Ladies  and  Gentlemen 
of  the  league,  any  fool  can  be  a  martyr,  and  I  will  not  be 
a  martyr  in  reputation  to  this  motion  to  discontinue  our 
official  organ,  yet  neither  will  I  be  like  that  blind  man 
lost  in  a  fog,  who  vilified  the  fog. 

GARLAND. — Mr.  Chairman,  I  rise  to  a  point  of  order. 

FAIRFIELD. — Please  state  the  point  of  order. 

GARLAND. — The  speaker  is  wandering  from  his  sub- 
ject. 

FAIRFIELD. — Point  not  well  taken:  the  greatest  dis- 
tance from  any  point  in  argument  is  there  where  we 
approach  it. 


KIRKWOOD. — Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  league, 
there  is  a  point  in  every  stick;  the  whittling  's  the  thing. 
Allow  me  to  whittle.  (Laughter.}  History  is  not  the 
laughing  philosopher  that  we  should  so  lightly  set  aside 
the  history  of  leagues  without  an  official  organ.  The 
illustrious  academy  of  Athens  had  no  official  organ: 
where  is  that  classic  league  to-night?  what  eye  has  seen 
its  advertisement  ?  what  ear  has  heard  its  gavel  ? 

MEMBER. — Do  you  mark  Garland? 

FOOTE. — He  has  found  his  blush. 

KIRKWOOD. — Each  office  has  its  mischief,  and  the 
editor  of  our  official  organ — the  editor  's  to  blame — with 
whom  it  has  still  been,  Me  and  the  gods,  and  not  that 
reverential,  The  gods  and  me,  has  abused  his  sacred 
trust,  showing  no  more  conscience  in  that  exalted  posi- 
tion than  a  certain  other  historic  figure,  I  mean  the  Cock 
Lane  ghost  in  the  Psalms.  (Laughter.)  Why  do  you 
laugh  ?  are  we  gathered  here  to  laugh  while  the  stars  of 
liberty  are  falling !  for  what  is  our  official  organ  but  our 
liberty:  are  we  gathered  here  to  dream  while  calamity  is 
awakening — while  the  sacred  rights  of  public  discussion 
are  assailed !  for  what  privilege  have  we  to  public  dis- 
cussion but  the  privilege  of  our  official  organ.  Ladies 
and  Gentlemen  of  the  league,  what  is  destiny  without 
liberty!  what  is  liberty  without  ink  ! 

FOOTE. — Printers'  ink  forever ! 

KIRKWOOD. — Gentlemen,  remember  we  all  are  candi- 
dates for  editor,  and  to  him  who  can  keep  his  mouth 
closed  all  ways  shall  lie  open,  even  dinner  ways.  (Laugh- 
ter.) 

FAIRFIELD. — Order,  order:  let  the  speaker  proceed. 

156 


EDITH. — A  very  informal  speech,  I  think. 

KIRKWOOD. — Coroners  and  undertakers  are  human,  so 
are  editors:  we  must  not  confound  principles  with  flesh; 
we  must  not  confound  the  principles  of  our  league  with 
the  flesh  of  our  editor.  Flesh  is  grass;  principle  is  dawn: 
grass  can  be  mowed  down ;  who  can  bind  the  dawn  ? 

MEMBER. — Bravo  !  bravo  ! 

KIRKWOOD. — Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  league,  we 
shall  always  have  the  fools  with  us,  and  a  fool  and  his 
pen  is  riding  the  neck  of  this  league  like  the  '  'Old  Man  of 
the  Sea",  who  was  an  editor's  son.  What  grapes  shall 
we  crush  to  cast  him  off?  what,  but  the  rich  cluster  of 
our  ballot. 

MEMBER. — Mr.  Chairman,  I  rise  to  a  point  of  order. 

FAIRFIELD. — Please  state  the  point  of  order. 

MEMBER. — The  speaker  is  dealing  in  personal  abuse. 

FAIRFIEUX — Point  not  well  taken. 

KIRKWOOD. — Who  can  deal  with  abuse  and  not  be  per- 
sonal ?  Does  that  member  think  the  Elements  of  Euclid 
has  disgraced  this  league?  Is  that  member  so  blind  as 
to  believe  Archimede's  screw  is  editing  our  official  organ, 
that  I  should  not  be  personal  in  speaking  of  abuse  ?  No, 
Ladies  and  Gentlemen  of  the  league,  let  us  be  one  with 
the  politician,  let  us  not  believe  all  we  say.  ( Laughter. 

FAIRFIE^D. — Order,  order:  let  the  speaker  proceed. 

FOOTE. — All  is  fate. 

KIRKWOOD. — In  the  dark  all  men  but  ourselves  are 
villains,  and  I  have  not  yet  so  enlightened  this  subject  but 
there  may  be  present  him  who  thinks  I  have  base  motives 
concealed  in  these  flowers  of  speech. 

FOOTE. — No,  no. 

157 


KIRKWOOD. — The  regard  of  my  collegiate  overcomes 
me:  I  pause  to  wipe  a  tear  from  my  notes.  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen  of  the  league,  shall  we  discontinue  our  official 
organ  that  the  editor,  who  is  grass,  has  abused  his  trust? 
our  official  organ,  without  which  our  league  must  ever 
be  as  barren  as  a  history  of  the  American-Spanish  war 
without  Admiral  Dewey,  the  Father  of  glories. 

FOOTE. — Bravo;  hear,  hear  ! 

KIRKWOOD. — Shall  we  be  a  cause  without  hands?  a 
principle  without  an  organ?  a  truth  without  communion? 
a  prophecy  without  a  trump  ?  a  light  without  a  throne  ? 
Shall  we  lose  our  splendid  pre-eminence  for  this  slight 
default  ?  Shall  Rome  go  down  from  her  seven  pleasant 
hills  and  dwell  in  the  valleys?  Shall  the  end  be  there 
where  our  love  thought  the  beginning  was  ? 

MEMBER. — The  ballot,  the  ballot. 

F  AIRFIELD. — Are  you  ready  for  the  ballot? 

MEMBER. — Ay,  ay. 

KIRKWOOD. — Now  may  eloquence  be  the  father  of 
good  works. 

FAIRFIELD. — As  many  as  are  in  favor  of  discontinuing 
our  official  organ  will  stand.  [  Garland  stands. 

FOOTE. — The  Fates  win. 

FAiRFiEiyD. — The  motion  is  lost :  all  is  fate. 

BERNICE. — (Aside  to  Kirkwood}  Thanks,  thanks, 
Kirk;  you  have  saved  my  position:  with  the  discontinu- 
ance of  the  official  organ  my  occupation  were  gone. 

KIRKWOOD. — (Aside)  But  this  is  dear  eloquence  to  me; 
I  must  pay  the  printer  for  this  same  official  organ :  I  am 
the  bank  of  my  own  eloquence.  And,  sure,  I  must  ban- 

158 


quet  the  Chair  for  keeping  me  on  the  floor  :  a  cold  bottle 
and  a  hot  bird  for  the  Chair. 

MEMBER. — I  move  this  assembly  adjourn  till  next 
Friday. 

FAIRFIELD. — Meeting  adjourned. 

{Exeunt  Garland,  Foote  and  Members. 

Why  does  Garland  seek  to  discontinue  our  official 
organ  ?  This  editorial  was  a  mistake  of  the  editor,  and 
can  easily  be  corrected.  It  does  not  shame  us. 

KIRK  WOOD. — I  think  he  wishes  to  kill  the  league. 

FAIRFLEXD. — Why  so? 

KIRKWOOD. — He  may  know  I  initiated  him.  O,  it 
shames  me  that  I  did  not  beat  him  openly,  but  he  is  a 
pillar  of  Hercules  beside  me.  What  do  you  think  of 
my  eloquence  ? 

FAIRFIEUX — Go  to  the  Senate,  son. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  there  you  say;  the  world  doesn't 
know  half  of  my  versatility.  Yes:  I  would  make  a  rare 
orator;  just  enough  misjudgment  to  concientiously  abuse; 
enthusiasm  to  damn  extempore;  wit  enough  to  corrupt  my 
opponent's  coming  on  and  impeach  his  going  off;  Script- 
ure enough  to  bring  the  devil  home  to  'em;  history 
enough  to  be  dangerous;  can  give  truth  a  holiday  at  a 
minute's  notice;  can  make  'em  think  they  are  thinking 
with  an  epigram;  miscellany  enough  to  pass  for  learn- 
ing; humor  to  heap  ridicule  on  my  opponent,  overcoming 
the  man,  not  the  question,  for  the  public  always  con- 
founds the  man  and  the  question;  and,  in  conclusion, 
leave  'em  in  the  clouds  riding  some  blazing  figure,  and 
there's  my  ballot  home. 

FAIRFIE^D. — May  I  see  you  home,  Miss  Prescott? 

i59 


EDITH. — I  thank  you:  you  may. 

KIRKWOOD. — Lead  on,  lead  on.  Bernice,  let  me  whis- 
per a  secret  in  your  ear:  this  is  a  very  sweet  league,  i' 
faith,  but,  dear  heart,  there  is  no  destiny  but  woman. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  j. — A  drug  store. 
Clerk,  with  newspaper,  discovered. 

CLERK. — She  hasn't  thrown  the  vitriol  yet;  we  are 
about  to  lose  a  good  advertisement. 

Enter  Maurice. 

Colvin,  what  can  I  do  for  you? 

MAURICE. — I  have  a  headache  in  the  front  and  eyes, 
obscuring  the  sight.  Have  you  medicine  to  cure  that? 

CLERK. — Ay,  here  's  what  will  mend  that  fault.  (Gives 
Maurice  medicine).  Have  you  read  the  morning  papers? 

MAURICE. — No.     Why? 

CLERK. — A  whole  scandal.  I'm  looking  for  a  case  of 
vitriol  throwing  in  high  life. 

MAURICE. — How  comes  it? 

CLERK. — I'll  tell  you  ;  talk  's  cheap.  A  fashionably 
dressed  woman,  heavily  veiled,  stepped  in  last  night  and 
wanted  to  purchase  some  oil  of  vitriol.  Now  what,  in 
the  name  of  all  that  's  reasonable,  does  a  woman  want 
with  vitriol  if  it  be  not  to  throw  at  a  rival  ? 

MAURICE. — So ! 

CLERK. — Well,  I  told  her  it  is  against  the  law  to  sell 
vitriol — I'll  not  sell  a  woman  vitriol — but  I  could  sell  her 
a  good  substitute  for  vitriol.  Told  her  if  she  should  spill 
a  drop  of  this  substitute  on  her  hand,  it  would  produce 

160 


all  the  effects  of  oil  of  vitriol,  but  without  danger  or  pain; 
draw  and  discolor  the  skin  ;  ruin  the  hand  for  life.  Be 
careful. 

MAURICK. — Well  ? 

CLERK. — Why,  man,  she  jumped  at  the  stuff.  Here  's 
a  merciful  vitriol  thrower. 

MAURICE. — You  may  be  mistaken. 

CLERK. — Mistaken  ?  I  don't  keep  the  article.  Ix>ok 
you,  I  charged  her  ten  prices  for  the  stuff  and  she  paid  it 
without  demur — a  woman  !  There  's  conviction.  She 
wants  that  stuff  to  throw  at  some  pretty  face  that  's  play- 
ing fast  and  faster  with  her  lover. 

MAURICK. — And  you  are  looking  for  the  item  ? 

CLERK. — Tut,  I  know  what  side  o'  public  opinion  a 
man  can  laugh  on.  The  stuff 's  as  harmless  as  salt ;  it  's 
a  volatile  stain  that  will  vanish  in  twenty  hours  with  the 
toilet,  but  bad,  bad  till  it  fade.  What  a  consummate  ad- 
vertisement it  will  be  if  it  's  in  high  life  and  the  papers 
get  it  vitriol  and  I  can  buttonhole  a  reporter.  The  firm 
should  cut  ten  per  cent  for  the  event. 

MAURICE. — So. 

CLERK. — Foh  !  I  know  what  I  know.  Where's  your 
headache  now?  All  gone:  I  know  't. 

MAURICE. — Beauty  is  frail. 

CLERK. — True:  but  here  's  a  wholesale  catalogue  of 
beauty  creams:  I'll  cut  'em  ten  to  forty  per  cent  with  the 
war  tax:  let  'em  mend  it. 

MAURICE. — Bah  !  {Exit. 

CLERK. — I  believe  he  thinks  I'm  mistaken  about  that 
woman.  When  I  get  the  item  I'll  not  say  anything,  but 
I'll  send  him  a  marked  copy. 

[Exit. 
161 


Scene  4. — A  lawn  before  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Frances,  heavily  veiled. 

FRANCES. — 

0  now  I  feel,  whene'er  I  ope  my  lips, 

I'll  pour  contempt  and  scorn  upon  the  world: 

Being  contemptible  I  hate  all  things. 

Then  beauty  was  all  my  boasted  charity, 

That  when  my  beauty's  gone  my  pity  dies 

And  all  my  gentleness  is  rooted  out: 

Then  I  was  kind  that  I  was  ever  fair; 

Not  that  my  heart  is  gentle,  but  in  my  fairness 

1  pitied  others  till  that  pity  born 
Of  pride  had  grown  to  be  a  charity. 
Indifference  is  the  charity  of  men 

And  pride  of  women,  I  have  heard  it  said  ; 
And  pride,  I  see,  has  been  my  charity; 
Pride  and  contempt.     O  I  am  stript  indeed: 
My  heart  's  no  better  than  gross  flattery 
Which  praised  my  beauty  till  I  grew  most  kind 
Through  fulsome  satisfaction  with  myself 
And  mere  contempt  for  others. 

Enter  Hale. 

HALE. —  Miss  Belmont, 

Is  this  veil  a  beauty  mask  ? 
FRANCES. —  'Tis  naught,  'tis  naught. 

HALE. — 

Then  put  it  by  for  it  becomes  you  not. 

I'll  pluck  it  off. 
FRANCES. —  No,  no! 

162 


HALE, —  In  faith,  I  will. 

FRANCES. — You  are  uncivil,  sir. 
HALE. —  How  now,  offended? 

FRANCES. — You  might  divine  as  much. 
HALE. —  You  speak  as  grieved: 

How  may  I  make  amends? 
FRANCES. —          Go;  leave  me  here. 

HALE. — 

Come,  let  me  see  your  eyes;  what  '$  sparkling  there 

Of  laughter  or  disdain. 
FRANCES. —          I'm  serious. 

Let  that  be  registered  with  your  beliefs. 

HALE. — 

Then  in  your  dreams  I  have  offended  you: 
Let  me  be  true  in  dreams.     Last  night  it  was 
You  laughed  at  me  in  dreams;  your  look  was  like 
Your  absence  and  your  presence  in  one  brow 
Crowned  with  your  sunny  hair. 

FRANCES. —          This  was  a  dream. 

HALE. — 

Dreams  paint  you  fair,  but  daylight  paints  you  fairer. 

FRANCES. — 

If  you  have  any  brain  to  see  I'm  vexed, 

Leave  me  alone  awhile. 
HALE. —  My  brain  's  all  heart. 

If  I  can  find  the  reason  why  you're  vexed 

I'll  kill  vexation  though  it  be  my  love. 

Adieu:  I  am  dismissed. 

[Exit. 

163 


FRANCES. — 

I  know  my  heart  must  put  your  name  away 

And  no  more  must  be  heard  of  with  my  own. 

Then  farewell,  Philip;  I  am  not  myself; 

My  face  is  as  hideous  to  look  upon 

As  vitriol  's  cruel;  all  loathsome  and  deformed  : 

The  deed  is  done  that  cannot  be  undone, 

And  now  I  fear  it  was  not  wisely  done 

For  where  there  is  no  honor  there  's  no  end  : 

His  evil  mind  may  seek  revenge  for  this 

That  overleaps  all  fear. 

Enter  Laura  behind. 

Alas,  alas, 

I  would  I  had  my  beauty  back  again 

That  now  is  lost  forever.   {Turning  around.}  Laura, 
is  '  t  you  ? 

Why  do  you  steal  upon  me  thus  ? 
LAURA. —  Here  's  ado. 

You  have  not  lost  your  beauty  that  you're  veiled  ? 

Is  all  transformed  beneath  ? 
FRANCES. —          What  do  you  mean  ? 

I  wear  this  veil  i'  the  sun. 
LAURA. —  You  can  speak  false 

As  well  as  play  coquette  :     I  heard  your  speech 

Confessing  your  beauty  lost. 
FRANCES. —          Leave  me  alone. 
LAURA. — 

If  tears  are  company,  you're  not  alone. 

If  grief  is  company,  you're  not  alone. 

Your  veil  is  wet  o'er  the  eyes. 

164 


FRANCES. —          It  is  not  so, — 

I  mean,  not  for  that  cause  :  I  weep  for  you. 
LAURA. — O  sweet  religious  tears. 
FRANCES. —          For  shame,  Laura. 
LAURA. — 

Now  will  you  make  a  gentle  housekeeper, 

For  'tis  the  occupation  of  the  plain. 

No  more  a  candle  is  your  beauty's  soul, 

But  it  lies  deeper ;  it  is  gentleness  ; 

For  you  will  make  a  virtue  of  homeliness. 

Your  beauty  now  lies  too  deep  for  accident, 

'Tis  moral ;  beauty  that  the  blind  can  see  : 

While  patience  shall  become  a  second  nature. 

Write  down  these  homilies  within  a  book 

Sacred  to  housekeeping  receipts. 
FRANCES. —          You  prate 

As  wide  as  jealousy  may  err  from  truth  : 

I  suffer  no  detraction. 
LAURA.—  Speak  direct. 

You  suffer  no  detraction;  you  may  add 

In  height  or  weight,  and  ease  your  conscience  so: 

But  if  I  think  your  beauty  suffers  none 

Then  my  belief  has  made  a  falsehood  here, 

For  as  you'd  have  another  take  your  words 

Even  so  they're  spoke. 
FRANCES. —  I  will  not  ope  my  lips. 

LAURA. — 

Your  silence  will  convict  you,  but  your  speech 

Will  perjure  you;  and  you  are  honorable. 

Well,  'tis  the  occupation  of  the  plain. 

165 


FRANCES.— 

I  cannot  understand  so  narrow  nature: 

My  heart  would  smother  were  it  cramped  like  yours. 

How  can  you  be  yourself  and  enjoy  aught  ? 

And  yet  the  spider  creeps  not  at  itself 

But  to  itself  seems  liberal  as  the  rose. 
LAURA.  — 

And  so  your  beauty  's  lost  ;  'tis  strange,  'tis  strange, 

'Tis  passing  strange: 

And  yet  'tis  lost  :  I  am  assured  of  that. 

Ah,  Frances,  do  you  know  how  fair  you  were? 

But  all  is  lost. 

Enter  Maurice  at  a  distance. 


there  where  Maurice  comes. 

What  part  of  woman  have  you  fed  him  on 

To  root  out  faith  and  constancy  in  him? 

What  but  your  beauty:  but  that  's  gone  from  you: 

Then  let  him  come  and  mock,  himself  most  mocked. 

'Tis  not  he  cares  for  you;  you  are  his  toy.       [Exit. 
FRANCES.  — 

L,et  's  come  to  misery  without  delay, 

Speak  face  to  face. 

MAURICE.—  Stay,  do  not  lift  that  veil. 

FRANCES.  —  Why  will  you  have  me  veiled? 
MAURICE.—  Many  thanks  are  due 

That  I  cannot  see  your  face. 
FRANCES.—  What  do  you  mean? 

MAURICE.  — 

I  was  a  soldier  once:  I  am  not  now; 

I  have  my  dishonorable  discharge. 

166 


FRANCES. —          'Tis  so. 
MAURICK. — 

And  once  I  thought  myself  a  gentleman, 

But  that 's  gone  too. 
FRANCES. —  'Twill  find  your  honor  out 

And  keep  it  company,  united  still. 
MAURICE. — 

Yet,  since  the  evil  's  not  beyond  recall, 

I  am  content. 

FRANCES. —          You  mean — 
MAURICE. —  I  mean  you  're  free. 

I  here  release  you  of  this  compulsory  marriage. 
FRANCES. — That!  that! 
MAURICE. —          I  've  wrestled  and  have  overcome. 

Enjoin  what  it  shall  please  you  for  this  deed 

And  you  shall  find  me  prompt. 
FRANCES. —  But  I  am  free? 

MAURICE. — I  've  said. 
FRANCES. —  O  me !  you  have  repented  this? 

Why  do  you  speak  so  late? 
MAURICE. —          It  is  my  best. 

Yet  naught  is  past  recall  but  your  distress. 
FRANCES. — O  blind,  blind,  blind  ! 
MAURICE. —          Stay,  do  not  lift  your  veil, 

There  is  a  temptor  there ;  a  word  or  two 

Till  it  is  put  away. 

FRANCES.—  I'm  dumb :  speak  on. 

MAURICE. — Where  is  your  father? 
FRANCES. —  He  is  not  at  home, 

Nor  will  be  for  two  days, 

167 


MAURICE. —          Then  tell  him  this  : 
That  Colvin  whom  he  shot  by  accident 
Recovered  of  that  wound  ;  he  did  not  die, — 
Your  father  was  mistaken  when  he  fled, — 
And  that  same  Colvin  's  my  uncle.     At  a  word, 
I  bring  him  before  your  father  in  his  home 
To  sweep  aside  the  rancor  of  these  years 
And  greet  your  father  as  his  dearest  friend. 

FRANCES. — Justice  is  come  again. 

MAURICE. —          'Tis  even  so. 

If  you  will  say  you  pardon  me  this  deed, 
Why,  it  were  kindly  said. 

FRANCES.—  I'll  lift  my  veil. 

MAURICE. — I  have  disarmed  myself;  'tis  all  alike. 

FRANCES. — 

You  're  right,  you  're  right:  I  will  not  lift  my  veil. 
Why  should  I  so? 

MAURICE. —          But  you  will  pardon  me? 

FRANCES. — Pardon  you?  no. 

MAURICE.—          Why,  then,  'tis  even  so. 

FRANCES. — Stay;  I  do  pardon  you  ;  'tis  all  alike. 

MAURICE.— 

I  thank  you,  I  thank  you. 

I  might  have  numbered  you  amongst  my  faiths ; 

I  choose  to  number  you  amongst  my  doubts. 

FRANCES. — 

But  for  this  pardon  there  is  yet  one  work : 
Laura  believes  that  I  have  injured  her 
By  selfishly  estranging  you  from  her : 
She  may  have  overheard  some  part  of  this 
168 


And  speak  as  from  abuse  and  circumstance. 
Go  tell  her  that  I  still  was  innocent, 
And  deal  with  my  poor  friend  as  honorably 
As  remorse  may  move  you. 
MAURICE.—          I  will  do  so. 

FRANCES.— 

My  father  freed ;  and  part  is  due  to  me, 

Which  is  some  comfort :  and  I  too  am  freed : 

My  friend  recalled  whom  I  would  cherish  still, 

Put  to  distraction  by  deep  jealousy: 

And  half  of  sorrow  an  experience. 

But  O  !  I  am  disfigured  till  the  end, 

And  now  must  stand  apart  and  look  on  youth 

Who  might  have  played  the  sweetest  part  therein. 

O  had  I  known  of  this  but  yesterday 

All  night  I  had  stayed  awake  to  paint  this  day 

The  consummation  of  my  maiden  hopes, 

This  day  which  issues  in  the  worser  dream. 

Ah,  what  a  waste  of  spirit  's  human  life.         {Exit. 

Scene  5. — Beside  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Kirkwood  and  Lambert. 

KIRKWOOD. — Now,  Lambert,  remember  "all  the  world 
loves  a  lover  ",  and  love  has  no  other  name.  See,  I  have 
set  up  a  ladder  to  the  window  of  your  lady  love,  and 
when  I  tell  you  to  mount,  mount. 

LAMBERT. — But  not  till  then. 

KIRKWOOD. — Swear  by  your  honor  that  when  you 
elope  you  will  not  play  this  trusting  Lucretia  false. 

169 


LAMBERT. — What,  have  I  not  an  authentic  marriage 
license  in  my  pocket? 

KIRK  WOOD. — And  the  ring? 

LAMBERT. — Likewise  the  ring. 

KIRKWOOD. — Good :  let  your  faith  reach  around  the 
ring  and  meet  in  a  glorious  marriage  knot.  But  can  you 
speak  the  sentiments  without  halting  in  the  very  presence 
of  Lucretia? 

LAMBERT. — I  can  speak  anything  in  ten  tongues  when 
she  speaks  of  love  in  one :  I  'm  all  fire. 

KIRKWOOD. — With  the  warp  of  your  love  I  have  min- 
gled the  woof  of  my  own.  But  you  must  not  halt  in 
these  speeches;  she  is  romantic  to  her  readings. 

LAMBERT. — I  bear  wings,  not  crutches,  in  love. 

KIRKWOOD. — You're  flint  o'  gold  to-night. 

LAMBERT. — 

Lo,  Dian,  on  yon  silver  crescent  mount, 
Has  lit  sweet  Even  to  her  orient  chambers, 
And  Night— 

But  I  say,  Kirk,  there  is  no  mount ; 
only  the  moon  behind  your  stable  tower. 

KIRKWOOD. — Let  love  be  the  scenery,  the  painting  and 
the  poem.  In  your  lady's  eye  are  Tempe  and  Arcady; 
there  is  the  day-spring  and  there  the  twilight.  It  was 
Mohammed  who  went  to  the  mount  when  the  mount 
would  not  come  to  Mohammed,  but  the  lover  talks  on. 

LAMBERT. — Shall  I  throw  this  pebble  against  Lucre- 
tia's  window? 

KIRKWOOD. — What,  will  you  wake  your  lady  love 
from  dreams  of  you  with  a  base  pebble,  a  pebble  per- 
chance that  little  cunning,  homely  Ethiopian  wench  has 

170 


tread  upon?  No,  take  these  :  I  have  de-stoned  my  cabi- 
net of  specimens,  black  diamond  and  white  chalcedony, 
smoky  topaz  and  opal,  obsidian  and  moonstone,  jet  and 
pearl.  Take  these  and  cast  them  at  the  window  of 
Lucre tia.  What  if  they  are  lost  i'  the  morning,  did  they 
not  serve  i'  the  night  ? 

LAMBKRT. — Jove,  all  black  and  white  :  give  me  'em. 

[Receives  the  stones  from  Kirkwood  and 
casts  them  against  balcony  window. 

KIRKWOOD. — There  was  a  Hero  and  a  Leander  once, 
a  Laura  and  a  Petrarch  ;  but  they  are  bright  exhalations 
fallen  into  the  dawn ;  they  are  eclipsed  by  Lambert  and 
Lucretia.  There  are  two  new  chords  in  the  lyre  of 
Venus,  and  their  clear  divinity  shall  never  be  mute. 
Who  henceforth  would  wake  the  hymn  of  love  must 
strike  these  two  master  chords.  Ha,  you  are  food  for 
poets. 

Enter   Lucretia  above  on  balcony,   veiled  in  white  and  partly 
screened  from  below  by  vines  and  trellis. 

She  comes ! 

LAMBERT. — She  conies ! 

Lo,  Dian,  on  yon  silver  crescent  mount, 
Has  lit  sweet  Even  to  her  orient  chambers, 
And  Night,  Night  regal,  comes  midst  falling  dew 
And  breathes  the  Venus  on  the  upland  hill. 
O,  mine,  enamoured,  come  out  in  the  night; 
Beauty  was  made  for  night,  such  night  as  this,— 
Heaven  is  fine  and  free  of  idle  rack 
And  Summer  is  enamoured  of  the  dusk  : 
171 


Then  come  thou  out,  beloved  as  thou  art ; 
Come  o'er  the  dews,  my  Queen,  come  o'er  to  me 
With  kisses  thick  as  evening's  starry  count. 

KIRKWOOD. — Good,  good. 

LAMBERT. — I  think  so :  good  accent ;  sound  discretion. 

LUCRETIA. — 

O  spent  's  the  arrow,  bent  the  golden  bow  ; 
And  I  am  gentle  Love's  fond  prisoner  : 
Upon  my  cheeks  two  evening  roses  blow, 
Still  watered  by  my  happy  cadent  tears. 

LAMBERT. — Jove,  now  will  I  devour  roses. 

KIRKWOOD. — A  rose  is  a  lover's  grape,  and  here  's  a 
whole  vineyard. 

LAMBERT. — I'll  have  her. 

KIRKWOOD. — You   may ;    that   little   god,   Love,    has 
pierced  her  to  the  white. 

LAMBERT.— 

Since  when  upon  a  golden  eagle's  wing 
Love  hung  o'er  hymned  Olympus  like  a  star 
And  sailed  upon  that  winged  argosy 
Over  a  golden  bar  of  melody 
To  dales  of  Tempe  where  Psyche  sojourned, 
Never  has  Love  rejoiced  to  such  a  pitch 
As  he  rejoices  in  this  summer  night. 

KIRKWOOD. — Never,  man. 

LAMBERT. — Never. 

LUCRETIA. — 

O  bind  not  Love,  or  he  will  grasp  his  bow 
And  make  such  discord  with  the  golden  string 
That  morning's  budding  dew  may  never  blow, 
The  rose  will  die  and  birds  shall  cease  to  sing. 

172 


LAMBERT. — What  do  you  call  'em,  album  verses  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — O  come  away — 

LAMBERT. — 

O  come  away,  my  Love,  to  summer  dales  ; 

The  bee  shall  get  his  honey  from  thy  lips 

To  feed  another  race  of  woodland  gods  : 

The  butterfly  shall  take  thee  for  the  rose 

Or  for  the  lily  or  the  goldenrod, 

And  bring  his  love  to  circle  'round  thy  eyes  : 

The  doe  shall  share  with  thee  her  crystal  well 

As  with  some  gentle  spirit  of  the  vale  : 

The  buds  will  blow  when  thou  shall  sing  of  May: 

The  Hours  shall  come  down  around  thy  feet 

And  dance  unto  the  music  in  thy  heart. 

KIRKWOOD. — Courage;  we  are  doing  famously. 

LAMBERT. — Famously  is  not  the  word — admirably. 

KIRKWOOD. — Come,  come;  don't  split  hairs  i'  the  dark. 

LUCRETIA. — 

Thou  hast  troubled  deep  my  clear  Pierian  spring, 
A  fountain  of  your  Loves  'tis  issuing; 
And  Plato's  bird  is  amorous  with  a  name 
That  Plato  banished  with  its  load  of  shame. 

KIRKWOOD. — She  's  as  wise  as  she  is  beautiful. 

LAMBERT. — Will  she  sing  to  me? 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  you  must  ask  her.  (A  dog  howls •.) 
Plague  take  that  cur  of  unutterable  woe.  O,  Love,  the 
nightingale — 

LAMBERT.— 

O,  Love,  the  nightingale  has  closed  his  song, 
And  bends  in  evening  for  the  echoes  sweet: 


Sing,  and  he  shall  mistake  thy  voice  for  his, 
Thrown  back  from  waters  where  bright  Venus  sleeps. 
LUCRETIA. — 

Ah,  Love,  I  am  a  tender  song  to-night, 

Stirred  by  sweet  yearnings  for  my  Love's  delight. 

(Sings) 
O  there  's  a  dulcet  blackbird  thrilling, 

And  thrilling  but  for  thee: 
O  there  's  a  darkling  blackbird  rilling 
In  golden  ecstasy. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet, 
The  world  is  ours 
And  love  is  ours, 
And  dews  are  at  our  feet. 

O  there  's  a  black  rose  midst  the  cream  ones, 

That  's  blowing  but  for  thee: 
O  there  's  a  waked  rose  midst  the  dream  ones, 
That  Love  shall  soon  set  free. 
Sweet,  sweet,  sweet. 
The  world  is  ours 
And  love  is  ours, 
And  dews  are  at  our  feet. 

LAMBERT. — Ah,  it  is  to  love. 

KIRKWOOD. — Ah,  it  is  to  love  and  be  loved. 

LAMBERT. — But,  Kirk,  what  makes  her  voice  so 
mellow  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — 'Tis  love. 

LAMBERT. — I  sometimes  think  I  have  heard  her  voice 
before,  I  mean  before  I  met  her ;  yet  I  cannot  place  it. 
Jove,  where  have  I  heard  her  voice  before  ? 

i74 


KIRKWOOD. — Does  her  voice  haunt  you  as  from  eter- 
nity ?  as  from  some  anterior  existence  ?  as  from  some 
other  life  you  seem  to  have  lived  ? 

LAMBERT. — It 's  something  that  way;  far  off;  spiritual. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  then,  she  's  your  affinity,  and  in 
eternity,  that  is  in  some  anterior  existence,  you  have 
heard  her  voice,  perhaps  rilling  this  self  same  song. 
This  is  too  heavy  to  discuss  at  present,  on  eggs,  as  it 
were,  but  doubt  not  she  is  Psyche,  your  Soul.  Mount. 

LAMBERT. — Jove,  the  hour  is  come  ! 

KIRKWOOD. — Is  the  lover  ready? 

LAMBERT. — Ready. 

KIRKWOOD. — Mount,  and  remember  ' '  faint  heart  never 
won  fair  lady."  (JLambert  mounts  to  the  balcony?)  Now 
let  the  stars  reel.  Soft,  I  will  throw  down  the  ladder  ; 
they  might  actually  elope.  {Throws  down  the  ladder.} 
Blessings  on  my  heart. 

LAMBERT. — Have  I  caught  you,  Psyche,  my  Soul  ? 

LUCRETIA. — La,  you  may  buss  me  now. 

KIRKWOOD. — La,  she  's  as  warm  as  a  'possum. 

LAMBERT. — What  makes  your  voice  so  mellow,  Love  ? 

LUCRETIA. — 'Tis  joy. 

LAMBERT. — What  makes  your  lips  so  thick,  Love  ? 

LUCRETIA. — O  'tis  from  kissing  your  picture  every 
hour  I  live. 

LAMBERT.— Your  cheek  is  rough,  Love.  What  's  this? 
a  veil !  and  these?  gloves  !  Come  to  the  light  and  let  me 
see  your  face.  A  veil ! 

LUCRETIA. — O  love  is  blind :  stay  here  i'  the  dark. 

LAMBERT. — No,  let  me  see  your  face ;  the  hair  o'  gold, 
the  violet  eyes.  O  come  away. 


LUCRETIA. — (Laughing.')  Then  kiss  me  twenty  times 
i'  the  dark. 

LAMBERT. — A  hundred.  (Kisses  her.)  Now  come  to 
the  light :  from  kisses  to  light,  from  light  to  kisses. 

LUCRETIA. — La,  I  am  " nothing  loath." 

LAMBERT. — I  am  passionately,  madly,  in  love  with 
you.  Jove,  I  will  devour  those  roses  in  your  cheeks. 

LUCRETIA. — They  are  white  roses. 

LAMBERT. — White  roses!  come  to  the  light,  come  to 
the  light ;  let  me  see  'em. 

[  They  come  from  behind  trellis,  etc. 

LUCRETIA. — Love  is  blind. 

LAMBERT. — Ay,  Love  is  blind. 

KIRKWOOD.— O,  Lord,  what  if  he  's  color  blind. 

LAMBERT. — (Taking  off  Lucretia'  s  veil.)  Spiders  and 
toads,  it  is  a  negro  wench ! 

LUCRETIA. — I  am  no  wench;  I  am  a  lady,  sir:  this 
color  (touching  her  cheek),  I  assure  you,  is  but  skin  deep; 
besides  Cleopatra  was  dark. 

LAMBERT. — Are  you  Lucretia  Floyd,  with  whom  I  'm 
in  love? 

LUCRETIA. — I  'm  Lucretia  Floyd,  me  honey;  that 
pearl  of  Ind,  that  well  of  love.  (Throwing  her  arms 
about  Lambert's  neck.)  La,  how  romantic  ! 

LAMBERT. — Now  I  see  how  I  'm  abused;  now  I  see  it 
all.  I  'm  no  ass,  I  'm  no  ass.  Let  me  be  gone ;  let  go 
my  neck,  you  soot-hen,  you  soot-hen. 

LUCRETIA. — I  'm  no  soot-hen  ;  I  'm  a  cake-walk  belle. 

LAMBERT. — O  hell! 

176 


LUCRETIA. — They  told  me  love  is  blind! 
LAMBERT. — Ugh ! 

LUCRETIA. — Is  our  romance  ended? 
LAMBERT. — Ugh! 

LUCRETIA. — Then,  take  that  (slapping  Lamberf),  you 
gross,  unromantic  thing.  I  am  too  fair  efface  for  you. 

[Exit. 

LAMBERT. — Damn,  damn,  damn,  damn! 
KIRKWOOD. — O,  Lambert,   Lambert,  what  joy,   what 
bliss,  what  rapture,  if  the  lady  had  just  been  Chinese. 

££*& 

LAMBERT. — Where  's  that  ladder?  fallen  down  !  I  must 
jump.  I  wish  he  was  beneath.  (Leaps  from  balcony.) 
My  pictures!  letters!  Jezebel!  I  have  set  a  price  on  my 
head  and  the  prince  of  fools  has  bought  me.  I  will  go 
hunt  Andree. 


177 


ACT    V. 

Scene  i. — A  room  in  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Frances,  heavily  veiled. 

FRANCES. — 

Long  since  I  read  how  that  a  lady  fair 

First  saw  her  image  in  her  daughter's  face, 

The  only  glass  the  Spirit  could  not  enchant; 

But  I  shall  never  see  my  image  more, 

That  uncorrupted  image  of  myself; 

Nor  have  I  heart  to  look  upon  what  's  marred: 

Once  did  I  look,  most  swooning  at  the  sight, 

And  rather  than  look  on  this  brow  deformed 

Or  have  another  mark  what  ruin  's  here, 

I  shall  go  veiled.     Who  calls  it  cowardice, 

Let  her  drink  of  this  cup  of  bitterness 

Of  which  there  is  no  bottom ;  let  her  drink 

And  learn  what  beauty  is  when  it  is  lost. 

Yet  if  I  cannot  be  a  beauty  veiled, 

I'll  strive  to  be  a  heart  behind  a  veil.  [Exit. 

Scene  2. — A  pathway. 
Enter  Maurice  and  Laura. 

MAURICE. — 

Gather  her  innocence  from  these  few  words 
Which  come  so  tardily.     Her  fault  was  mine. 
Your  name  was  very  near  to  tears  with  her 
When  coupled  with  misjudgment :  go  to  her, 

178 


She  is  your  friend  and  this  is  your  mistake, 
Which  known,  your  rancorous  words  are  all  forgot. 
I  have  o'erstept  my  honor  in  so  far — 
Which  I  may  not  explain  nor  never  will- 
That  I  must  lose  your  love. 
LAURA. —  What  have  you  done  ? 

MAURICK. — 

I  have  done  naught  but  have  attempted  much 

That  is  not  sweet  for  me  to  think  upon. 

Let  it  go  by  :  only  the  deed  's  not  mine 

But  the  temptation. 
LAURA. —  I'm  as  fair  as  she, 

And  can  converse  as  reasonably  as  she  ; 

Esteemed  as  much  by  those  who  know  us  well : 

And  though  she  's  witty  she  abuses  that ; 

A  virtue  more  for  evil  than  for  good  ; 

Quite  out  of  concord  with  that  cadence  sweet 

When  virtue  waits  on  virtue,  none  in  extreme 

Passioned  from  merit  to  default. 

MAURICE.—  Well  said : 

But  let  't  go  by. 

LAURA. —  O,  I  can  speak  right  on, 

And  show  that  Frances  Belmont  has  her  faults 
Which  need  a  critic  who  has  eye  and  brain. 
Besides  she  's  a  coquette  and  I  doubt  not 
That  you  did  see  some  lightness  in  her  'havior 
Which  led  to  this,  for  men  are  men  we  know. 
Fie  !  she  shall  not  estrange  your  heart  from  mine  : 
I  love  you  better  for  this  slight  trespass. 
Come,  never  think  of  this  ;  Maurice,  forget. 

179 


MAURICE. — No,  you  misjudge  her.     But  you'll  be  her 

friend  ? 
LAURA. — 

There  's  time  for  that.     Enough  of  this  to-day. 

Come,  we  shall  spend  the  evening  at  a  play.  {Exeunt. 

Scene  j. — Grounds  before  Garland's  house. 
Enter  Kirkwood  and  Bernice. 

KIRKWOOD. — O,  Bernice,  do  you  know  the  true 
Promethean  fire  ascends  to  heaven  and  not  descends 
from  heaven  ?  and  that  your  love  has  taught  me  this  ? 

BERNICK. — From  the  same  book,  Kirk,  is  it  not  pos- 
sible we  have  learned  the  same  lesson  ? 

KIRKWOOD. — Let  me  not  complain,  Bernice  ;  but  your 
love  is  like  a  white  rose  i'  a  church  and  blows  too  near 
the  sacrament. 

BERNICE.— Can  love  be  too  near  the  angels? 

KIRKWOOD. — Ah,  Bernice,  I  know  myself,  and — I  am 
grieved  to  say — there  is  little  of  the  angel  in  that  knowl- 
edge; though,  as  the  world  goes,  I  can  turn  to  satisfaction 
and  content  in  myself  on  both  hands.  No;  I  keep  no 
record  of  my  sins  but  my  enemies ;  no  remembrance  of 
my  virtues  but  my  friends ;  and  I  cannot  show  you  the 
book  of  my  deeds,  unless  you  can  find  that  book  in  my 
friends,  who  exceed  my  enemies.  But,  dear  heart,  when 
I  forget  the  angels  believe  I  am  scheming  some  kindness 
for  this  lesser  breed. 

BERNICE. — I  know  you  are  a  noble  hearted  gentleman. 

KIRKWOOD. — Why,  there  you  say  :  I  would  have  said 

180 


the  same  myself  had  not  modesty  forbid.  Add  now  the 
adage — How  much  dearer  is  the  husband  than  the  lover. 

BERNICE. — I  have  learned  the  adage  differently,  Kirk. 

KIRKWOOD. — Bernice,  I  will  allow  you  exactly  an  hour 
to  dress  for  visiting :  bring  all  your  art  to  bear  on  your 
toilet  and,  dear  heart,  wear  something  white  at  the  throat. 

BERNICE. — Where  will  you  have  me  go? 

KIRKWOOD. — I  will  tell  you:  my  father  will  return 
home  exactly  at  four  o'  clock ;  Frances  has  golden  news 
for  him  which,  I  doubt  not,  will  make  his  heart  mellow: 
she  will  break  this  news  at  a  quarter  past  four :  five 
minutes  after  the  quarter  you  and  I  will  present  ourselves 
before  that  brave  old  gentleman — nay,  nay,  do  not  deny 
me,  Bernice;  I  saw  his  blessings  in  's  eyes. 

BKRNICK. — I  will  not  deny  you,  Kirk. 

KIRKWOOD. — Thanks,  thanks.  Why,  what  a  thing 
this  is  I  must  be  hedged  in  with  parental  approval.  Let 
me  not  think  on  't ;  I  'm  bitter  at  times.  Will  you  go  in, 
sweet?  meanwhile  I  will  walk  up  and  down  here  and, 
while  I  smoke,  endeavour  to  grasp  a  new  virtue. 

BERNICE. — An  hour  is  my  privilege? 

KIRKWOOD. — What,  an  hour  fora  toilet,  an  hour?  then 
you  are  of  the  roses,  red.  (Exit  Bernice.}  Time  was  I 
was  a  very  dependent  young  fellow ;  but  that  was  before 
my  aunt  died:  time  was,  I  heard  the  pealing  of  the 
spheres  more  often  than  the  ringing  of  golden  dollars  ; 
but  that  was  before  my  aunt  died  :  time  was,  I  had  so  run 
in  debt  my  creditors  would  not  trust  me  with  this  same 
Spanish  deficit;  but  that  too  was  before  my  aunt  died. 
By  this  good  day,  I  was  still  beholden  to  this  lady,  yet 

181 


without  the  knowledge.  But  are  we  not  all  most  beholden 
where  we  least  conceive  ?  There  is  Garland,  for  instance; 
is  he  not  under  infinite  obligation  to  me  for  that  drubbing 
I  gave  him?  and  he  conceives  it  was  Fairfield — perhaps. 
Well,  to  God  be  the  praise  and  to  men  the  light.  [Exit. 

Scene  4. — Parlors  in  Belmont's  house. 
Enter  Hale  and  Frances ',  heavily  veiled. 

HALE.— 

Will  nothing  move  you  to  undo  this  veil 

That  I  may  mark  the  workings  of  your  face 

And  know  when  scorn  is  scorn,  when  jest  is  jest, 

And  gather  some  faint  clue  to  irony. 

I  cannot  find  your  humor  in  your  voice 

But  it  will  stand  inverted  in  your  face. 
FRANCES.— 

If  you  cannot  distinguish  by  my  words 

How  I  have  spoken,  think  not  in  my  face 

To  find  it  out. 
HALE. —  Your  face  is  the  better  part 

Of  conversation  ;  poetry  of  speech. 

I  rather  have  one  accent  from  your  eyes 

Than  twenty  from  your  tongue. 
FRANCES. —          Is  my  voice  harsh, 

Jarring  upon  the  ear?  then  what  remains 

When  beauty  and  when  melody  are  lost? 
HALE.— 

Neither  is  lost,  yet  neither  can  be  found. 

Your  face  I  have  not  seen  for  forty  hours — 
182 


FRANCES. — 

Nor  have  I  seen  my  face  for  forty  hours. 

Then  how  may  you  complain? 
HALE. —  Your  voice,  to  me, 

Is  like  a  throstle  singing  in  the  Spring, 

But  whose  locality  cannot  be  found, 

Till  that  sweet  voice  without  a  body  to  't 

Becomes  a  pain. 
FRANCES. —          O  much  remains  to  woman 

When  a  sweet  voice  remains. 
HALE.—  What  veil  is  this  ? 

Of  what  religion  or  fanaticism  ? 

Or  is  it  but  your  humor  showing  thus  ? 

Or  is  there  reason  in  't  ? 
FRANCES.—  Consider  it : 

Why  should  I  wear  this  veil ;  to  shield  my  face 

From  the  rude  sun  ?  or  that  I  grow  more  pale  ? 

Or  make  this  fairness  dear  by  rarity  ? 

Or  do  you  think  'tis  humor  showing  thus  ? 

Or  is  't  religion  or  fanaticism  ? 

Or  have  I  lost  my  beauty  in  a  dream  ? 

Or  is  there  reason  ? 
HALE.—  There  is  reason,  sure, 

If  'tis  but  lack  of  reason  ;  reason  still 

Of  strong  prevailment. 
FRANCES. —  You  grow  bitter,  sir. 

But  there  is  reason  here  ;  yet  what  it  is 

I  will  not  say,  but  leave  it  to  your  wit 

To  search  and  know,  and  when  the  truth  is  found 

I'll  speak  at  large. 

183 


HAI,E.—  It  is  fanaticism 

To  veil  that  glory  and  that  touch  divine 
That  has  no  name  below  but  "  maidenhood," 
And  none  of  this  commingles  with  your  blood  : 
Nor  can  I  think  you  wear  it  'gainst  the  sun  : 
Nor  yet  to  pale  the  lily  on  your  brow  : 
To  make  your  beauty  rarer,  there  's  no  need  : 
That  'tis  your  humor  is  most  probable  : 
And  last,  that  you  have  lost  your  beauty — no, 
It  cannot  be. 

FRANCES.—  Is  beauty  invulnerable 

That  there  's  no  reason  in  this  last  and  worst,— 
Beauty  that  's  but  skin  deep  ? 

HAI,E.—  Believe  it  not. 

The  contour  of  your  face  denies  the  text, 
Your  eyes  call  to  your  hair  to  witness  that, 
Your  hair  laughs  in  the  light. 

FRANCES. —  There  are  some  men 

Who  admire  deformity  in  womankind  ; 
And  men  of  sensibility  oft  do  so  : 
Perchance  you  would  admire  a  violet  eye 
Within  a  brow  deformed  ? 

HAI,E. —  If  the  eyes  were  yours. 

FRANCES. — Yea,  if  the  eyes  were  mine. 
HAI.E. —  Why,  then,  I  would. 

FRANCES. — And  would  you  so? 
HAI,E. — (Aside)    Her  drift  is  evident ; 

She  would  plummet  me  by  swearing  beauty  lost. 

The  more  she  swears  that  she  is  hideous 

The  more  I'll  swear  my  love. 

184 


FRANCES. —          Why  do  you  pause  ? 
HALE. — 

That  you  were  beautiful  the  world  well  knows, 

That  you  are  beautiful  the  world  believes ; 

And  yet— 

FRANCES. —          Ay,  there  's  the  doubt. 
HALE. —  Is  't  possible  ? 

FRANCES. — What  possible  ? 
HALE.—  I'll  not  believe  'tis  so. 

FRANCES. — Believe  what? 
HALE. —  That  this  divinity  is  marred 

Even  at  its  consummation  ;  that  all  's  marred 

Which  was  so  wonderfully  made. 
FRANCES. —  'T  is  even  so. 

HALE.— Ha ! 
FRANCES. — 

O  all's  undone !     Speak  not  so  graciously  : 

You  never  spoke  so  sweetly,  but  the  sweet 

Is  come  when  it  is  but  a  mockery. 

Ask  me  no  more. 

HALE. —  Alas,  dear  lady,  alas  ! 

FRANCES. — 

You  have  a  suit  with  me:  now  I  am  freed 

To  answer  whether  I  will  be  your  wife 

Or  no. 

HALE. —  You're  free,  sweet  Frances,  to  reply? 

FRANCES. — Yea,  I  am  free. 
HALE. —  What  answer  shall  I  have  ? 

FRANCES. — 

If  I  were  what  I  have  been  it  were,  Yes ; 

Since  I  am  what  I  am  it  must  be,  No. 

185 


HALE. — 

If  you  were  what  you  have  been  it  were,  Yes; 

Then  she  who  is  my  love  shall  be  my  bride, 

And  she  who  is  my  bride  shall  be  my  wife, 

And  she  who  is  my  wife  shall  be  my  all. 

Upon  this  veil  I  seal  my  perfect  faith: 

All  's  mine  beneath. 
FRANCES. —  You  know  not  what  you  do , 

Not  knowing,  are  absolved. 
HALE. —  My  love  's  my  knowledge, 

And  all  the  knowledge  I  would  have. 
FRANCES. —  No,  no. 

By  accident — for  call  it  accident — 

My  face  is  as  hideous  to  look  upon 

As  oil  of  vitriol  's  cruel. 
HALE. —  O  pitiful! 

Sweet  Frances,  let  me  sympathize  more  near, 

As  husband  sympathizes  with  a  wife. 
FRANCES. — 

Too  much  I  love  you  ever  to  unveil. 

Think  on  me  as  you  saw  me  at  the  dance, 

And  let  us  say  " farewell";  yet  not  " farewell ", 

But  " farewell  love".     My  very  noble  friend, 

Your  hand  to  that. 
HALE. —  Why,  look,  I  am  misjudged 

Even  when  misjudgment  touches  honor's  height 

By  one  above  all  others  I  looked  to 

For  hope  of  perfect  judgment.     What  is  this  ! 

Your  beauty  lost  and  I  must  say  "farewell" : 

Do  husbands  say  ' '  farewell ' '  to  aging  wives  ? 

To  those  who  meet  with  some  cruel  accident  ? 

186 


No,  sorrow  sees  another  face  beneath 

Like  which  the  angels  see  ;  nor  grief  is  grief 

And  sorrow  's  but  a  name  when  it  is  kin 

To  love  and  spirit.     Now  out  of  hand,  sweet  Frances, 

I  take  you  for  my  wife. 

FRANCES. —          You  have  not  seen. 

HAI<E. — Unveil. 

FRANCES. —          Never  !  I  rather  lose  your  love. 

HAI<E. — Yet  I  will  take  you  so. 

FRANCES. —          Are  you  sincere  ? 

HAI^E. — I  loathe  a  trifling  mood  in  serious  state. 

FRANCES. — 

How  shall  I  act  ?     O  this  confesses  me 
If  nothing  else.     I  know  not  what  to  say  : 

0  I  cannot  forget,  yet  cannot  wrong, 
And  I  have  not  the  courage  to  unveil. 
Yet  do  you  love  me  for  my  character 
And  not  for  my  face  ? 

HAI,E. — (Aside)   Were  this  not  Frances,  why, 
I'd  'gin  to  doubt  that  she  was  acting  here  ; 
But  this  is  she  :     I'm  not  so  credulous 
As  she  believes.     Sweet  Frances,  for  them  both, 
Both  for  your  face  and  for  your  character, 
As  one  esteems  twin  jewels. 

FRANCES. —          O  no,  no,  no ! 

HAI,E. — 

What  if  one  jewel  's  lost,  the  other  's  mine. 

1  fixed  my  hope  upon  a  double  jewel, 
Whereas  one  was  inestimable  :  then  let  one  go ; 
I  shall  not  cast  the  other  after  it 

But  seize  upon  the  most  I  can  enjoy. 
187 


I  seem  to  find  you  there  where  half  is  lost ; 
Your  character  more  lovely  now  appears 
In  standing  by  itself;  'twas  cheated  still. 
Sweet  bride  of  character,  intemporal  love, 
O  gentle  lady,  in  whom  still  appears 
An  outward  image  of  an  inward  face 
Whose  very  smiles  are  deeds  of  gentleness, 
Whose  light  is  not  uncertain  with  the  years  ; 
Which  ever  grows  from  fair  to  dearer  fair 
As  grows  the  rose  unto  the  poets1  praise, 
O,  Frances,  now  my  love  is  perfected 
Which  freely  throws  away  the  temporal  part 
And  seizes  on  the  part  intemporal. 
Nor  think  hypocrisy  is  uttered  thus, 
But  that  your  character  has  found  its  due 
By  standing  thus  apart.     Give  me  your  hands  ; 
I'll  take  you  as  you  are. 

FRANCES. —          Can  you  love  that?     (Unveiling.) 

HAI,E. — Glorious ! 

FRANCES. —          O   shame !     (Hides  her  face  in   her 
hands  J) 

HAI/E. —  How  now ;  lift  up  your  face. 

Alas,  Frances,  alas ! 

FRANCES. —          I  do  absolve  you,  Philip. 

HAI.E.— 

In  faith,  you  shall  not :  I  love  you  all  the  more 
In  very  pity.     Now  I  have  your  hands ; 
You  cannot  hide  your  face.     0  this  would  break 
A  heart  of  stone. 

FRANCES. —          You  look  on  me 
And  speak  of  love? 

188 


HALE. —  Come,  let  that  witness  me.    (Kissing 

her.) 

FRANCES. — Your  love  exceeds  all  thought. 
HALE. —  You'll  be  my  wife? 

FRANCES. — 

If,  seeing,  you  will  take  me  for  your  wife 

I'll  be  your  wife.     'Tis  little  that  I  bring 

But  I  will  teach  't  to  grow. 
HALE. —  Sweet  Frances,  no; 

You  come  like  Summer  when  all  buds  are  blown, 

Nor  art  can  teach  another  shoot  to  bud. 

Ah,  Frances,  do  you  know  how  fair  you  are? 
FRANCES. — O  let  me  go :  you  shall  not  mock  at  me. 

My  veil. 
HALE. —  Look  here.    (Leads  Frances  before  a 

mirror.) 

FRANCES. —         Ah ! 
HALE. —  Get  you  from  me  : 

What  mean  you  by  thus  marrying  from  your  art  ? 

Go  on  the  stage ;  within  your  veins  there  runs 

Dramatic  blood  right  royal. 
FRANCES. —  What  does  't  mean  ? 

HALE. — A  mirror  cannot  flatter,  only  deceive. 
FRANCES. — 

Then  it  is  no  such  thing ;  I  was  deceived  ; 

My  face  is  not  disfigured  for  my  life  ; 

'Tis  as  it  was  before  the — accident. 
HALE. — Ay,  play  a  sixth  act  out. 
FRANCES. —          Ah,  Philip,  Philip  ! 

This  is  the  sweetest  hour  of  my  life : 

I  have  dreamed  out  the  dream  and  now  awake 

To  know  reverseless  evil  was  a  dream. 

189 


HALE. — 

Well  played.     Go,  take  the  measure  of  a  stage 

And  learn  how  wide  your  coming  honors  are. 
FRANCES. — (Laughing)  Philip,  I  know  you  now. 
HALE. —  What,  do  you  so  ? 

FRANCES. — 

Thinking  my  face  deformed,  you  yet  were  steadfast. 

'T  is  worth  it  all. 
HALE. —  This  was  your  method,  then, — 

You  vowed  your  beauty  lost  to  plummet  me? 
FRANCES. — I  will  not  answer  that:  only,  I  know. 
HALE.- 

Why,  what  a  work  of  credulity  is  love ! 

Yet  for  all  that  I  guessed  you  played  this  part 

And  spoke  out  of  that  guess. 
FRANCES. —  What,  did  you  so? 

You  thought  I  was  deceiving  you  in  this  ? 
HALE. — Ay. 
FRANCES.—  Then  this  is  not  constancy  in  you  ; 

You  would  have  scorned  me  had  this  thing  been  true ! 

You  would  have  scorned  me  were  my  beauty  lost ! 
HALE. — I  surely  should  have. 
FRANCES. —          Oh,  I  know  you  now 

As  God  before  me  knew  you.     Go  your  way. 
HALE. — 

I  cannot  win  your  love  by  so  gross  cheat 

Or  else  I  had  been  silent  on  my  guess. 

Why,  no,  if  it  were  so  I'd  none  of  you — 

A  homely  wife  's  a  husband's  heaviness. 

I  cannot  part  your  beauty  from  your  grace 

And  take  you  for  your  grace,  though,  I  confess, 

190 


Should  any  accident  destroy  your  grace 

I'd  take  you  for  your  beauty :  even  so. 

And  yet,  sweet  Frances,  had  this  thing  been  true, 

I  might  have  acted  even  as  I  did : 

I  do  not  know,  I  am  not  brought  to  test. 
FRANCES. — Ah,  well,  let 't  be;  let  us  be  human,  Philip. 
HALE. — Frances,  "  the  human. ' ' 
FRANCES. —          With  her  '  *  droppings  of  warm  tears1 ' . 

I  do  forgive  you,  Philip,  for  that  mind ; 

It  is  the  very  pattern  of  my  own  ; 

I  never  could  endure  an  ugly  face 

In  woman,  nor  can  I  endure  it  now. 

Find  me  a  new  praise  for  beauty ;  '  tis  your  charge. 
HALE. — I  make  it  mine. 
FRANCES. —          O  that  the  gentle  world 

Had  but  one  tongue  and  that  was  given  o'er 

To  beauty's  praise.     Look  out  the  window,  sir : 

My  father  comes ;  go,  send  him  in  to  me, 

And,  if  you  have  regard  for  my  contempt, 

Tarry  five  minutes  hence. 

HALE. —  Five  seconds?  well.  [Exit. 

FRANCES. — 

I'll  send  a  jeweled  scarf  to  that  drug  clerk 

Who  sold  me  some  weak  stain  in  substitute 

For  oil  of  vitriol — though  'twas  his  mistake — 

And  pull  down  blessings  on  his  decent  top. 

And  I'll  be  woman,  I'll  be  human,  I; 

I  will  not  see  a  lesson  in  my  grief 

Nor  will  I  be  a  heart  behind  a  veil. 

{Placing  herself  before  a  mirror. 
191 


I'll  make  my  neighbors  envious  as  of  yore 
With  this  same  beauty  which  I  thought  was  lost. 
Sure,  I  must  have  a  care ;  I  grow  too  good : 
Yet  one  more  kindness  to  my  brother  Kirk 
And  then,  in  truth,  I'll  do  some  naughty  trick 
In  fear  I  grow  too  good,  and  therein  proud, 
Which  chokes  the  very  source  of  charity. 

[Quitting  the  mirror. 

I'm  certain  Philip  thought  I  spoke  the  truth 
Until  I  unveiled  to  him,  then,  like  a  man, 
He  turned  it  off  to  hide  his  sentiment. 
Yes,  he  would  love  me  though  I  were  not  fair, 
But  being  fair,  why,  he  will  love  me  more. 

Enter  Belmont. 

What  time  is  't,  father? 
BELMONT. —         A  little  after  four. 
FRANCES. — 

'Twill  serve.     I  have  some  golden  news  for  you : 

One  favor  ere  I  speak. 
BELMONT. —         What  shall  it  be? 
FRANCES.— 

Withhold  not  your  approval  from  my  Kirk ; 

It  is  an  honorable  marriage  which  he  seeks. 

Dear  father,  am  I  not  your  favorite,  I  ? 

Then  for  my  sake  grant  me  this  sister  kind, 

I  mean  sweet  Bernice.     O,  be  sure,  you  will. 
BELMONT. — 

Come,  come,  I  have  no  favorite  in  my  house. 

But  what  Js  the  news? 

192 


FRANCES. —          This  lightless  history 

Must  be  re-written  by  a  wiser  pen 

And  Providence  let  in:  that  Colvin,  sir, 

Whom  you  still  think  was  killed  by  accident — 

He  did  not  die. 
BELMONT. —          Not  die !  impossible  ! 

You've  seen  the  brother. 
FRANCES. —          I  have  seen  them  both. 

Believe  it,  for  you  must  by  evidence. 

Look,  look  !  'tis  he  without  the  window  there; 

He  comes,  he  comes  ! 
BEI^MONT. —          If  this  be  true ! 
FRANCES. —  'Tis  true. 

BEUMONT. — 

I'll  never  reach  the  bottom  of  this  cup 

Your  hands  hold  up  to  me.     Who  told  you  this  ? 
FRANCES. — His  nephew,  Lieutenant  Colvin. 
BEUMONT.—  My  thanks  to  him. 

FRANCES. — Ay,  give  to  him  his  due. 

Enter  Colvin. 

COI.VIN. —  Robert,  Robert, 

What  have  old  men  to  do  with  bitterness; 
Give  me  your  hand :  the  fault  was  wholly  mine. 

BEI.MONT. — Richard,  is  't  you? 

COI,VIN. —  You  see  the  scar;  look  here. 

This  never  was  a  badge  of  bitterness 
But  was  a  book  wherein  I  read  our  love. 
Your  silence  has  become  your  only  sin. 

BEI.MONT. — I  am  dumfounded. 

193 


I  have  lived  this  o'er. 
This  is  your  daughter? 
BEXMONT.—          This  my  daughter  Frances, 
Who  tells  me  that  you  live. 

Re-enter  Hale. 

This  is  my  friend 
Philip  Hale. 

COI/VTN. —        I  've  known  the  Captain  these  two  years. 
Enter  Kirkwood  and  Bernice. 

And  this,  I'll  swear,  is  your  son. 
BEUMONT.—  My  only  son. 

COI^VIN. — What 's  this,  another  daughter  in  the  home  ? 
BEUMONT.— 

No,  this  is  not  my  child  ;  but  she  shall  be 

If  you  will  give  her  to  my  son. 
COI/VIN. —  (To  Bernice)  Sweet  lady, 

Let  me  give  you  away. 
BERNICE.—  I  thank  you,  sir. 

CoivViN. — (To  Kirkwood)  Have  her  of  me,  young  man? 
KIRKWOOD.—       Sir,  she  is  mine: 

But  now  I  have  her  twice. 
COLVIN. — (To  Belmonf)  Do  you  hear  this? 

He  has  her  twice. 
BELMONT.—          His  father  makes  one  more. 

So  now,  sweet  daughter,  'tis  a  triple  bond. 

All  happiness  go  along  ! 

(To  Colvin.)    Let's  take  these  gray   beards   to  the 

And  leave  youth  in  the  parlor.  [library 

COI/VIN.—  Even  so. 

[Exeunt  Behnont  and  Colvin. 
194 


FRANCES. — Dear  Bernice,  you  shall  be  my  sister  now. 

I've  known  it  these  two  years. 
HALE.—  Kirk,  by  this  same  grace, 

You  are  my  brother. 

KIRKWOOD. —       Ha!  so  I've  known  two  years. 
FRANCES. — 

And  may  I  ask  how  you  have  been  so  wise? 
KIRKWOOD. — 

lyet  be,  we  're  kin;  let  's  not  approve  that  bond 

By  discord.     I'm  right  glad  you  've  cast  that  veil ; 

I'd  not  endured  it  longer. 
FRANCES.—  Would  you  not? 

Come  hither,  Bernice ;  stand  before  this  glass. 

[She  places  Bernice  before  the  mirror, 
then  stands  beside  her. 

Pray,  gentlemen,  which  is  the  fairest  bride? 

[Curtain. 


195 


HARRIET  KENYON. 


197 


HARRIET     KEN  YON. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONJE. 


KENYON 

SPENCER 

JOHN,  brother  to  Spencer. 

BREWSTER,  a  Physician 

CLAUDIUS,  son  to  Spencer 

BURKE 

DRAKE 

EDMUND,  son  to  Mrs.  Hartland . 

CURTIS 

TODD 

LIVINGSTONE  

BURRII,!,,  a  Reporter 

Another  Reporter 

A  Critic  of  Letters  

Two  Poets . . 


Mrs.  Kenyon,  wife  to  Kenyon 

Mrs.  Hartland,  sister  to  Mrs.  Kenyon 

HARRIET,  daughter  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenyon. 

VENETIA,  daughter  to  Spencer  

IDIUA,  daughter  to  Mrs.  Hartland 

ROSE,  daughter  to  Livingstone 

A  Matron,  friend  to  Venetia 

A  Hostess 

Nurse  to  Rose 


Several  Literary  Men  and  Women,  Officers, 
Maids,  a  Child,  &c. 


Scent— BAR  FRANCISCO. 
198 


HARRIET  KENYOR 

A  TRAGI- COMEDY. 


ACT    I. 

Scene  i. — Parlors  in  Kenyon's  house. 
Enter  Kenyon  and  Brewster. 

KBNYON. — 

Now,  sir,  since  duty  springs  with  prophecy, 

Advise  me  how  to  deal  with  Harriet  ; 

This  heavy  transformation  must  presage 

Some  sickness  of  the  body  or  the  mind. 
BRKWSTER.— 

'Tis  true  your  daughter  's  changed,    yet  with   this 
change. 

No  bodily  distemper  goes  along ; 

So,  happily,  you  need  not  look  beyond 

The  difference  of  deed  and  temperament. 
KENYON. — Booking  no  further,  what  of  looking  so  far? 

199 


BREWSTER. — 

She  seems  indifferent  to  life,  yet  cleaves 

To  no  particular  peculiar  thought ; 

Nor  her  affection  's  in  another  world  ; 

Foregone  society  without  hate  or  malice ; 

In  duty  sees  no  soul ;  and  blessed  is 

Neither  to  wake  nor  sleep. 
KEN  YON.—  There  is  a  time 

Her  natural  self  looks  out  to  be  addressed 

And  to  address :  that  time  is  when  she  writes. 

In  literature  she  finds  a  kind  of  joy 

That  ministers  to  her  inverted  mind 

And  moves  her  to  engagement. 
BREWSTER. —        Give  her  way  : 

The  appetite  of  sickness  is  its  cure 

In  many  instances. 
KENYON.—  I  doubt  it  not  ; 

Nor  hold  it  wise  that  natural  bent  be  checked 

Which  makes  for  health  ;  but,  sir,  her  mother  chid 

The  subordination  of  society 

To  literature ;  nor  ever  did  deny 

The  credence  of  her  literary  art, 

But  begged  she  make  society  her  care : 

To  which  our  daughter  briefly  made  reply, 

' l  Well,  mother,  as  you  choose, ' ' 

And  therewith  ceased  to  write. 
BREWSTER.—  Has  she  ambition 

In  literature? 
KENYON. —  Quite  empty  of  ambition 

That  makes  accomplishment  of  revenue. 

200 


BREWSTER. — Has  she  belief  in  her  ability? 
KENYON.—     Even  now  she  has  belief  and  now  has  not. 

I  counseled  her,  Belief  is  inspiration  ; 

And  in  my  counsel  she  was  half  resolved 

Yet  with  a  mind  most  mutable  at  best. 
BREWSTER. — She  's  mutable  to  argument? 
KENYON. —  One  who  sees 

The  eternal  truth  within  the  instant  beauty. 

But,  sir,  in  your  ability  we  rest ; 

You  have  the  true  physician's  inner  light 

We  nothing  doubt,  and  shall  be  ruled  by  you. 
BREWSTER. — 

Since  ability  has  the  privilege  of  silence, 

I'll  nor  beget  opinion  but  remedy. 

Suffice  you  quiet  your  fears  for  Harriet, 

Then,  sir,  give  her  consent  to  literature 

And  draw  her  out  to  her  validity ; 

Therein  she'll  lose  this  ennui  and  be  healed. 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan. 
KENYON. — 

Madam,  our  speech  is  touching  Harriet  : 

Take  comfort,  free  yourself  from  heaviness  ; 

There  's  nothing  serious  and  what  's  disjoint 

Has  remedy. 
MRS.  KENYON.—      'Tis  comforting  to  think. 

Ah,  sir,  the  patient  herein  cures  herself 

Whenever  she  shall  learn  obedience 

And  duty  to  the  deed. 
BREWSTER  . —  Obedience 

Attends  on  health  as  surely  as  arrives 

At  health  ;  and  therefore,  madam,  I  advise 

201 


That  Harriet  have  the  privilege  of  letters, 
In  which,  I'm  given  now  to  understand, 
She  has  peculiar  interest,  and  as  interest 
Is  not  particular  in  this  respect 
But  leads  to  interest,  madam,  we  will  trust, 
Still  patient,  that  within  a  little  time 
Your  daughter  will  o'ertop  expectancy 
And  flatter  your  ideal. 

KKNYON. —  I  think  it  well. 

MRS.  KKNYON.— 

Why  literature,  and  not  society  ? 
Ah,  sir,  she  's  obstinate  in  some  degree — 
I  must  say  that  and  yet  I  would  not  say  it ; 
But  reservation  with  the  physician,  sir, 
Is  often  death  with  the  patient — obstinate  : 
She  need  but  say,  "  This  is  unprofitable  ", 
And  without  indirection  or  entreaty 
Take  up  the  jewel  of  society 
And  wear  it  on  her  brow. 

BREWSTKR. —  This  obduracy 

Is  even  as  a  canker  on  the  brow  ; 
A  breach  of  nature  which  my  art  must  heal. 
'Tis  palpable  to  a  physician. 

MRS.  KKNYON.—      I  grant  you  right. 
And  through  respect  of  letters  Harriet 
Will  gather  interest,  by  which  indirection 
She  will  return  into  society  ? 

BREWSTER. — 

Health  will  make  love  to  uncongenial  labors, 
While  sickness  often  loathes  the  native  talent. 
I  take  my  leave. 


MRS.  KENYON. —     We '11  cherish  your  advice.    {Exit 
I'll  importune  our  daughter  to  attend  Brezvster 

This  evening's  gathering  of  the  literati. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hartland  and  Harriet. 

L,ook  where  she  comes.     Harriet,  this  afternoon 

You  honor  Mrs.  Carthage's  invitation, 

And  school  yourself  to  grasp  her  latest  poem 

Which  she  will  read ;  and  I  am  very  sure 

Harriet  can  make  defeat  to  the  syllable 

Upon  this  work. 

KENYON.—  Harriet,  I  've  faith  in  you. 

MRS.  HARTLAND. — Surely  my  niece  cannot  then  doubt 

herself. 
HARRIET. — (Aside)  A  little  more  of  doubt  would  be 

more  kind. 

MRS.  KENYON.— You  will  attend  ? 
HARRIET. —  If  you  desire  it,  mother, 

I  shall  obey. 

MRS.  KENYON. —      I  knew  you  would  say  so. 
HARRIET. — 

I  shall  obey.     Pray  you,  was  't  Stephen  Burke 

That  quit  the  room  ?     I  would  return  a  book 

If  he  's  about. 
MRS.  KENYON. —     Not  Stephen,  Harriet. 

Can  you  conceive — or  is  't  not  possible — 

How  cruel  it  is  you  still  repel  his  love? 

Therein  you  spurn  our  own.     Are  you  not  bound 

By  all  the  commune  of  an  earlier  day, 

By  interchange  of  vows,  by  understanding, 

203 


By  the  unwritten  covenant  of  your  honor, 
To  surrender  up  yourself  to  Stephen  Burke 
As  his  sweet  wife  ? 

HARRIET.—  Yes,  mother,  I  can  conceive. 

KENYON.— 

It  is  a  subject,  daughter,  I  cannot  shield 
The  comment  on. 

MRS.  KENYON.—      Then  why  continue  unmoved, 
Or  moved  to  contraries  ? 

HARRIET.—  I'll  tell  you  why, 

And  repetition  may  be  good  for  truth. 
It  pleased  you  in  a  better  time,  when  past 
The  immediate  bound  of  mewed  maidenhood 
I  yet  had  ventured  scarce  one  syllable, 
To  move  me  to  consent  to  be  his  wife : 
But  I  have  grown  from  childhood — O  so  long  ! — 
And  found  this  must  not  be  though  this  must  be, 
For  I  respect  him  not. 

KENYON.—  Harriet,  take  thought, 

And  cabin  not  this  ample  spirit  thus. 
Out,  wretched  penury  of  bachelorhood  ! 
With  no  philosophy  but  selfishness, 
What  altar  may  its  prayer  find  comfort  at  ? 
Where  may  it  kneel  for  grace?     Then  be  resolved. 
I  chide  you  not  the  less,  but  love  you  more ; 
A  father's  blessing  take  your  duty  up 
And  compass  you  about.  [Exit. 

MRS.  HARTLAND. — Let  us  believe 

That  you  are  troubled,  not  divided,  niece. 


204 


MRS.  KKNYON. — 

She  takes  no  thought  of  the  morrow,  Harriet, 
That  maiden  who  no  thought  of  a  husband  takes. 
Confess  you'll  be  the  wife  of  Stephen  Burke, 
Thereby  the  name  of  Burke  be  firmly  knit 
To  that  of  Kenyon  in  alliance  meet. 
How  fit  in  action  'tis  our  elder  houses 
And  forefirst  should  by  marriage  be  united 
And  incorporate  descend.     Come,  Albertine, 
Our  niece  and  daughter  loves  us  ;  love  is  final. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Kenyon  and  Mrs.  Hartland. 

HARRIET. — 

O  fie,  fie,  mother,  to  plot  with  flesh  and  blood  ! 

Shame  on  you  !  ah  shame  !  you  cannot  care  for  me  ; 

It  is  unnatural — and  it  will  not  prosper. 

O  God  !  why  was  I  born  ?  or  being  born, 

Why  did  I  not  die  in  my  infancy  ? 

Or  why  am  I  a  woman  ?     O  heavenly  powers  ! 

What  is  a  woman  if  her  all  in  all 

Is  still  to  yield  herself  in  marriage  up 

That  she  may  feed  and  clothe  and  bourn  herself 

Free  from  the  unkind,  rude  and  enslaving  mart, 

Or  quicken  her  family  in  the  social  tides, 

Or  live  in  idle,  wanton  luxury — 

A  mistress,  a  purchase,  or  a  beast ;  no  more. 

And  who  calls  Harriet  that  ?  not  Harriet 

But  Harriet's  mother  !  and  one — O  religious  choice! — 

That  would  be  Harriet's  husband  and  in  her  child 

Point  out  his  brow  !     I'd  rather  be  a  worm 


205 


And  feed  on  dust  than  be  allied  to  him: 
But  suffer  still  for  I  am  but  a  woman. 

Enter  Idilia. 

IDII^IA. — Come  into  the  conservatory,  Harriet. 

HARRIET. — I  was  thinking,  Idilia,  thinking. 

IDIUA. — You  think  too  much  of  late :  Lord  keep  my 
daughters  green. 

HARRIET. — Could  not  I — consider  it  for  me — by  the 
ingrafted  loves  of  the  time,  by  youth,  by  talent,  by  tem- 
perament, by  willing  sufferance,  and  by  that  special  provi- 
dence in  will,  earn  an  humble  yet  honorable  living  as  a 
contrite  poet  ? 

IDIUA. — Nay,  sweet  Harriet,  you  cannot  milk  the 
stars.  Alas !  a  man  will  starve  at  poetry,  and  a  woman 
will  marry  at  it :  therefore,  since  you  may  not  insinuate 
you  are  a  man  and  stand  with  those  spirits  to  whom  hunger 
are  riches,  and  since,  as  a  woman,  you  are  sworn  to  con- 
tinue a  bachelor-maid,  I  pray  you  divide  your  inspiration 
amongst  the  quick,  lay  no  perjury  to  your  free  soul,  and 
come  into  the  conservatory. 

HARRIET. — I  am  resolved.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  2. — A  club  room. 
Enter  Claudius  and  Drake  y  meeting. 

CLAUDIUS. — Rodman ! 

DRAKE. — Claudius  ! 

CLAUDIUS. — You  were  near  and  I  thought  of  you. 

DRAKE. — 

You  are  right  welcome  back  to  San  Francisco. 

But  what  occasion  hastens  your  return  ? 
206 


I  thought  on  you  as  taxing  yet  the  North 
With  rod  and  gun  in  search  of  quality 
That  bends  the  spirit  up :  yet  am  right  glad 
We  have  you  back  again. 

CLAUDIUS.—  I'll  tell  you,  Drake  : 

There  was  a  kind  of  fever  in  my  blood, 
And  an  electric  dilatation  in  my  brain, 
That  plucked  the  soul  from  my  employment, 
And,  compulsive  in  the  solitude  of  hills, 
Encamped  beneath  the  multitudinous  pine, 
Drove  me  to  take  my  heart  into  my  bosom 
And  come  again,  for,  sir,  in  single  truth, 
I  have  conceived  a  work,  an  epic  poem, 
And  fain  would  make  essay. 

DRAKE.—  Then  on  the  vast 

Of  epic  we  shall  hail  your  spirit  bark, 
That  sea  along  whose  shore  the  poets  walk, 
And  dream  of  airs  from  heaven's  concave  hill. 

CLAUDIUS. — 

To  be,  and  have  the  attributes  of  man 
That  wait  on  the  human  heart  and  instrument 
Its  finer  purposes,  lending  to  a  thought 
The  quality  of  action,  and  to  a  dream 
A  form  and  nature  palpable  :  to  love, 
And  have  an  imagination  and  a  scope 
Of  light  of  largeness  and  of  beauty  filled 
With  all  the  loves  of  nature  and  of  man, 
That  shall  not  fall  into  the  lees  :  to  write, 
And  have  the  ' '  vision  and  faculty  divine ' ' 
To  rear  nature  to  art  and  art  to  nature, 
Making  imagination  and  heroic  truths 
207 


An  almost  universal  inheritance 
Through  resolved  and  expressed  beauty  :  to  die, 
And  in  his  ever-living  native  language 
Renowned  dwell,  a  generation  and 
A  race  of  truth,  bequeathing  downward  still 
Unto  the  heart  that  will  not  see  it  die, 
For  the  poet  is  a  spirit,  the  legacy 
Of  some  most  noble  poem  that  has  resolved 
The  spirit  of  his  country  and  his  age 
For  all  time  :  this  is  the  epic  poet' s  part : 
And  what  more  noble  can  the  mind  essay 
That  is  of  letters  and  inheritance  ? 
DRAKE. — There  's  no  beam  in  the  mind's  construction 
to  weigh  two  equal  parts  and  find  one  wanting  :     I  must 
stand  indifferent,  neither  heat  your  pride  nor  cool  your 
hopes  ;  your  courage  equals  the  difficulties,  but  the  work 
is  as  great  as  your  art. 

CLAUDIUS. — There  are  tears  for  the  thought,  toil  for 
the  work,  and  ambition  for  the  utterance. 

Enter  Burke  and  Curtis. 

BURKE. — Spencer  !  how  wears  the  world  with  you  ? 
CLAUDIUS. — As  with  yourself. 

BURKE. — Then  you  grow  strange.  {Introducing  Curtis) 
My  friend,  John  Curtis  :  sir,  Claudius  Spencer. 
CURTIS. — One  who  knew  you  first  in  spirit. 
CLAUDIUS. — I  must  invert  that  speech  with  you. 

Enter  Todd. 

TODD. — Is  the  excellent  Claudius  returned  ?     Zounds ! 
you  come  tardily  off;  your  book  has  been  published  these 

208 


three  weeks,  and  the  critics  go  still  unchallenged. 
Queerquill,  who  makes  oblivion  his  occupation,  has  made 
an  impious  feast  of  it,  and,  as  for  the  public, — why, 
gentlemen,  you  must  shock  the  public  or  the  public  will 
shock  you. 
CLAUDIUS. — 

He  's  not  a  fool  but  a  dishonest  man: 

I  cannot  answer  fools  and  dishonest  men. 
TODD. — Yet  sometimes  honor  the  liar  for  his  English. 
CLAUDIUS. — 

Soft,  ere  you  go  :  I  pray  you  say  to  him 

The  God  that  made  Queerquill  did  not  make  me. 

Say  that  I  spoke  thus  far. 
CURTIS. —  Who  is  this  critic? 

CLAUDIUS. — 

One  that  has  made  a  kennel  of  a  trust 

To  make  him  feared. 
TODD. —  'Tis  true  he  's  better  known 

Through  hate  than  love,  abuse  than  compliment: 

Yet  'tis  a  kind  of  honor  to  be  damned; 

The  damned  are  always  gifted. 
DRAKE.—  Shall  we  say 

Among  these  gifted  you  are  numbered,  Todd  ? 
TODD. — Faith,  every  one  to  his  opinion,  Drake, 

And  every  opinion  to  its  truth. 
CLAUDIUS. —  Why,  so, 

It  is  a  liberal  and  a  fair  reply. 

My  book,  you  say,  is  published  ? 
CURTIS. —  Even  so. 

Your  name  's  the  better  title,  and  this  work 

Has  made  your  name  more  rare. 
209 


BURKE. —  The  fount 

Of  Helicon  is  rising  in  your  brain, 
Pellucid  and  undefiled. 

DRAKE. —  The  masters  and 

The  reverence  direct  you  still. 

TODD. —  Zounds,  sir, 

But  how  have  you  the  conscience  to  have  reverence 
In  such  opposing  times?     Take  heed  of  that: 
The  modern  's  born  for  reform,  an  iconoclast 
Knocking  old  order  from  its  pedestal  of  flesh, 
With  laughter  for  a  banner  'gainst  the  wind. 
But  fare  you  well ;  I  hold  that  hour  lost 
That  is  not  given  o'er  to  politics.  [Exit. 

CLAUDIUS. — A  fool  and  his  silence  are  soon  parted. 
CURTIS. — Who  is  this  portly  gentleman? 
DRAKE. — Why,   he  's  a  kind  of  mocking  spirit  who 
divides  his  time  between  poetry  and  politics ;  but  a  mere 
bubble  in  the  sea  of  literature.     He  will  know  you  better, 
Curtis,  and  swear  it  takes  many  kinds  of  fools  to  make  a 
world. 
BURKE. — 

My  leisure  is  engaged ;  but,  gentlemen, 
Let  's  drink  a  toast  within  these  rooms  to-night 
With  letters  more  or  less. 
CLAUDIUS. —  Content :  good  day. 

[Exeunt  Burke  and  Curtis. 

Counsel  me  not  to  give  my  project  o'er, 
Lest  I  grow  idle  and  blasted  at  the  top 
With  ennui  following  enthusiasm 
Barren  of  works. 


DRAKE.  —  I  would  not  be  so  rude 

As  rend  what  beauty  thus  has  joined  in  you. 

CLAUDIUS.  — 

Remember  then  that  certain  suit  of  mine, 
Which  ended  only  in  your  readiness 
By  reason  of  my  absence  and  what  else 
Has  come  between  my  purpose  and  its  act. 
I  would  be  introduced  to  Harriet  Kenyon, 
Whose  yet  unpublished  lyrics  I  have  read, 
Under  your  friendship  and  your  courtesy, 
And  greatly  pleased  am  moved  to  know  the  poet. 

DRAKE.  — 

Your  works  are  not  esteemed  the  less  by  her, 
Nor  is  she  less  desirous  of  your  friendship. 
This  afternoon  I  will  effect  your  suit 
If  leisure  wait  on  opportunity. 

CLAUDIUS.  — 

I'll  wait  upon  you  with  the  afternoon. 
Nay,  come,  let  's  go  together. 


Scene  j.  —  Room  in  Kenyon's  house. 

Enter  Harriet  and  Idilia. 

HARRIET.— 

There  's  nothing  I  may  call  my  own  but  doubt. 

IDILIA.  — 

O  for  a  lover's  voice  to  lure  you  back 

From  that  long  road  that  turns  not  in  the  grave. 

I'll  weep  that  you  find  true  divinity 

In  the  text  of  tears  ;  I'll  go  unto  the  babe 

And  learn  to  weep  that  Harriet  amend. 


HARRIET. — 

Nay,  but  to  be  a  picture  and  no  more, 
A  picture  merely,  for  the  weary  world 
To  gaze  upon. 

IDII^IA. —  O  you  attentive  spirits, 

Steep  me  in  patience  even  to  the  lips. 
Why  need  you  hasten  hence  unto  truth's  end 
To  do  the  biddings  of  extravagancy  ? 
If  you  will  follow  some  peculiar  art, 
Make  me  your  practice  and  your  recompense. 
If  you  will  be  a  lawyer,  speak  the  faith, 
And  I  will  be  your  fee-apparent  still : 
Yea,  if  you'll  be  physician,  out  of  love 
I  bear  you  wholly,  I'll  be  lunatic 
And  fee  you  like  a  queen. 

HARRIET. —  To  be  a  puppet 

Of  rotten  strings  ! 

IDIUA. —  Alas,  alas  ! 

HARRIET. —  A  sponge  ! 

IDIUA. — 

The  heavens  make  you  better  company: 

Till  then,  I  will  be  absent  from  your  side. 

But  soft,  I  '11  break  my  mail ;  this  journal  is 

Dan  Cupid's  calendar,  who,  I  pray  God, 

Will  quit  his  mother's  side  a  summer's  eve 

And  drop  from  Venus  like  a  falling  rose 

Into  my  Harriet's  study.  {She  reads  apart. 

HARRIET. —  O  understand  Ine. 

My  mind  is  changed,  and,  like  the  sulphur  bed 
That  turns  the  stream  to  wormwood,  my  galled  brain 
Will  bite  the  sweetest  spring  to  bitterness. 


IDIUA.  — 

O,  Harriet,  you  are  injured  !  look  on  this. 

Who  has  outraged  my  cousin  ?     Shame  on  him, 

Ah,  shame  ! 

HARRIET.  —  Beseech  you. 

IDIUA.  —  L,ook   here  :    (Giving  Harriet  a 

\_paper)  afar  and  yet 

That  has  in  it  a  June  and  scent  of  orange 

You  're  betrothed  to  Stephen  Burke. 
HARRIET.  —  Let  's  see:  so,  so. 

Who,  think  you,  was  so  kind  and  generous 

As  to  publish  this  ?  (Aside)  My  mother  :  yes. 
IDIUA.  —  I  do  not  know;  indeed,  I  do  not  know. 
HARRIET.  — 

O  I  smell  method  in  each  syllable: 

The  instigator  is  not  far  away. 

O,  God  !  what  is  the  use  of  anything  ? 


Nay,  cousin,  take  it  not  so  serious; 
But  profit  by  denial  of  this  thing. 
HARRIET.  — 

Believe  me,  it  was  I  who  did  this  thing: 

Ay,  even  I,  Idilia,  even  I; 

Then  let  's  be  merry.         (Knocking  within.) 

Hark,  who  's  there  !  let  's  see.    (Opens  the  door.) 

Enter  Edmund. 
EDMUND.— 

Cousin,  your  mother  seeks  to  speak  with  you. 

Idilia,  come. 
IDIUA.  —  Away  !  you  do  offense. 

213 


EDMUND. — 

How  now,  there  's  something  has  offended  you. 

What  can  it  be  ? 
HARRIET. —  Ah,  sir,  I  have  been  wronged, 

Grievously  wronged. 

IDIUA. —  I  also  have  been  wronged. 

EDMUND. — May  not  I  serve  you,  then  ? 
HARRIET. —  A  jest,  a  jest. 

Away,  sir,  you  are  dull :  we  shall  obey. 

Come,  who  would  not  obey. 

IDIUA. —  Harriet  can  do  no  wrong. 

[Exeunt* 

Scene  4. — A  room  in  Spencer's  house. 

Enter  John  and  Venetia. 

JOHN. — 

My  gentle  niece,  your  absence  grieves  me  much, 

And  with  yourself  my  daughter  goes  along, 

For  so  you  are  to  me  ;  yet  I  rejoice, 

Ay,  even  to  the  limit  of  my  heart, 

You  soon  shall  leave  us  to  endow  your  voice, 

Schooling  yourself  through  several  studious  years 

For  the  operatic  stage. 

VENETIA. —  O  say  no  more  ; 

I  yet  shall  tarry  many,  many  days  : 
Nor  teach  me  of  what  stuff  farewell  is  made 
Till  farewell  's  ripe,  lest  I  repent  of  that 
Which  merely  to  imagine  is  so  painful. 
I  pray  you  tell  me  this. 

JOHN. —  As  I  have  grace. 

214 


VENETIA. — 

Have  I  not  builded  merely  on  my  hopes  ? 

My   hopes,    slight   things,    like    high   spun    spider 

threads, 

With  every  vaunting  wind  aspire  to  fix 
Their  ends  within  the  clouds  to  fall  quite  down 
When  vanity  no  longer  stays  them. 
Dare  I  aspire  to  stage  my  barren  voice 
Where  plaudits  echo  still? 

JOHN. —  Freely  you  may. 

Your  voice  by  nature  is  endowed  to  compare 
With  many  still  renowned,  and  through  that  art 
Which  you  shall  gain  at  the  academy 
May  court  renown. 

VENETIA.—  Adieu:  I'll  busy  myself 

In  the  voice  of  counsel.  {Exit  John. 

A  long  farewell  to  doubt ; 
I'll  send  it  begging  for  a  burial 
That  from  this  moment  I  may  court  renown. 
But  come,  prophetic  studies,  with  stern  thoughts, 
And  allay  the  ecstasy  that  's  in  my  blood 
Lest  joy  should  make  that  seem  a  holiday 
Which  needs  be  studious  and  full  of  care. 

Enter  Spencer  (blind.} 

SPENCER. — 

How  secretly  could  I  thank  adversity, 

Which  like  the  brackish  pool  where  we  must  drink 

Wears  yet  within  it  the  sweet  face  of  heaven, 

If  but  adversity  would  wrack  those  means 

That  buy  my  daughter  tutorage  abroad 

215 


And  steals  her  from  the  winter  of  my  life ; 
For  I  shall  miss  her  as  the  heart  but  can 
When  age  has  rooted  deep  its  last  affection. 
Ah  well !  she  has  my  dear  consent  and  speed, 
And  I  am  loath  to  make  of  youth  a  crutch 
That  age  may  go  more  upright  in  its  carriage. 
So  should  it  be :  and  I'm  advanced  in  years, 
Too  old  to  fellow  with  her  darling  youth 
Which  is  not  youth  but  in  companionship 
Of  equal  years ;  too  old  to  recompense 
But  never  too  old  to  grieve.  {Exit. 

VENETIA. —  O,  Venetia! 

What  have  you  dreamed  about  that  never  yet 

You  dreamed  of  this?     He  grieves  to  have  me  gone, 

Yet  ever  smiled  me  off  in  love.     Alas, 

I  did  not  look  so  deep  !     I  saw  but  joy 

Where  utmost  sorrow  is.     Yet  all  is  well ; 

I'll  give  the  stage  back  to  the  stage  of  dreams, 

And  here  at  home  will  ever  cherish  him 

Forgetting  there  's  another  star  than  love. 

O  thanks  to  that  which  taught  him  self  commune, 

That  gentle  habit  of  an  earlier  day, 

For  it  has  tutored  me.     Then,  farewell  my  dream 

That  made  the  night  a  heaven  and  the  day 

A  dream  full  of  ambition,  fare  you  well; 

Although  that  I  were  gifted  at  the  throat 

Above  all  women  that  have  gone  before 

In  the  most  sweet  list  of  recorded  singers, 

The  reverence  and  obedience  I  owe 

Must  throw  ambition  out  and  leave  me  mute, 

Quite,  quite  mute. 

216 


Enter  Claudius. 

Brother  !  Claudius  !  you  ! 

You  did  not  send  us  word :  why  have  you  come — 
You  are  not  sick  ? 

CLAUDIUS.—  Not  sick,  Venetia, 

I  have  not  tasted  of  this  fitful  cup. 
Be  then  assured  health  brings  me  again 
In  certain  occupation,  of  which  anon 
I '11  speak  about.     Are  you  at  leisure,  dear? 

VENETIA. — What  would  you  have  me  do? 

CLAUDIUS. —  O  come  away 

And  take  the  hour  with  pleasure;  even  there 
Where  one  shall  introduce  us  to  a  poet 
We  ever  wished  to  know,  Harriet  Kenyon. 

VENETIA. — 

Late  at  a  musical  I  met  this  poet: 
A  certain  grace  dwelt  like  a  friend  in  her 
That  I  may  almost  say,  This  is  my  friend; 
Although  she  looked  through  me  and  saw  my  kin, 
For  I  am  but  a  glass  to  Claudius 
That  you  are  never  absent  and  myself 
Yet  never  present.     So  oft  it  is,  indeed, 
Some  do  but  hold  the  mirror  to  their  kin 
And  in  themselves  are  nothing. 
CLAUDIUS. —  Speak  not  thus. 

You  are  a  glass  wherein  the  world  doth  see 

The  sweetest  flower  in  the  May  of  song. 

But  come,  the  afternoon  is  almost  spent.      [Exeunt. 


217 


Scene  5. — A  room  in  Kenyon's  house. 
Enter  Kenyan  and  Mrs.  Kenyan. 

MRS.  KKNYON. — 

Husband,  I'm  wondrous  light,  and  you  can  read 
The  language  of  my  feelings  to  that  text. 
Comes  Harriet  to  my  room  upon  a  word 
From  cousin  Edmund,  and  there  takes  my  hand 
And  saying  thrice,  "  Mother  can  do  no  wrong," 
Embraces  and  kisses  me  a  world  of  times  : 
O  most,  most  dutiful. 

KKNYON. —  Believe  me,  Hazel, 

This  little  privilege  of  literature 
Has  moved  her  from  contraries  to  respect. 

MRS.  KKNYON. — 

Ah,  husband,  let  the  rude  world  doubt  its  fill, 
Our  children  are  indeed  the  top  of  grace. 
There' re  times  when  we  are  troubled  deep,  and  yet 
A  little  patience  and  our  hearts  are  cheered 
Even  then  in  the  extremity  of  their  dolor. 

KKNYON. — The  doctor  shall  be  thanked. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —     The  parent  faith 

Was  shaken  at  the  root ;  but  all  is  healed. 
We  shall  attend  our  daughter's  wedding  yet, 

And  live  to  give  a  fair  grandchild  a  name. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  6. — In  private  parlors. 

Hostess,  Claudius,  Burke,  Drake,  Curtis,  Harriet^,  Venetia,  Idilia, 
and  several  literary  Men  and  Women  discovered. 

HARRIKT. — 

Persuade  no  more;  you  do  me  wrong,  my  friends, 
To  beg  I  publish.     Let  me  not  be  moved 
218 


To  sharp  repentance  for  these  things  set  down . 

I  've  writ  me  down  a  sadness,  friends,  in  that 

I  've  published  to  the  eyes  of  gentle  friends: 

Yet  therein  I  may  happily  perceive 

The  largeness  of  silence  and  henceforth  be  moved 

Unto  mute  numbers. 
CLAUDIUS. —  Our  works  are  then  in  vain, 

If  not  in  vanity. 
BURKE. —  'Tis  chief  in  this, 

The  little  writers  die  upon  neglect 

When  great  ones  publish. 
HARRIET. —  Believe  me,  Mr.  Burke, 

Your  speech  is  something  to  be  thought  upon 

If  not  to  be  believed. 
HOSTESS.—  I  'm  very  sure 

Miss  Kenyon  will  not  let  us  lose  our  prayers. 

In  silence  there  's  no  art. 
HARRIET. —  Nay,  there  's  great  art, 

For  silence,  madam,  goes  before  discourse. 
IDIUA. — 

But  in  this  silence  there  's  no  literature. 

0  be  assured  I  will  press  this  suit, 

And  if  there  's  argument  in  a  woman's  tongue, 

1  shall  convince  you  publication  's  wise; 
If  there  is  music  in  a  woman's  tongue, 

I  '11  so  attune  it  to  the  ears  of  doubt 

That  heresy  dies  in  music. 
HARRIET. —  I  am  firm. 

CLAUDIUS. — 

Allow  me  to  speak — not  in  authority 

But  sorrow  :  it  were  all  alike  in  grace 
219 


If  we  had  never  written  what  we  bring 
To  letters  should  we,  by  a  drift  of  thought, 
Withold  from  publication  for  the  world 
That  which  we  write,  for  beauty,  rarity, 
And  truth  are  in  communion,  not  in  thought. 
HARRIET. — 

0  silence  that  dreadful  logic,  lest  it  put 

A  conscience  in  delay.     Believe  me,  friends, 

1  cannot  stand  against  moral  persuasion  : 
Confounded  with  belief  and  sick  of  doubt, 
My  heart  cries  mercy  and  my  pen  is  armed 
Against  delay,  and  O,  no  doubt,  good  friends, 
I'll  leap  my  pause. 

Enter  Critic  of  Letters. 

HOSTESS. —  But  look,  who  's  he  comes  here 

To  smell  the  burning  of  his  criticisms  ? 

HARRIET. — 

Forbear,  lest  you  should  bruise  the  head  of  peace. 

O  welcome,  sir, — if  I  have  voice  at  court 

That  's  heard  above  the  triumph  of  ingratitude — 

Thrice  welcome  to  the  guardage  of  this  court. 

Dimmed  is  the  precious  jewel  of  content 

Or  wholly  lost,  by  flatterers  despoiled 

Even  from  the  gracious  brow  of  constancy : — 

They  have  persuaded  me  to  throw  myself 

With  all  my  music  on  the  multitude, 

To  publish  what  is  written  and  what  's  to  come  ; 

Then  you  are  welcome  that  your  heart  grow  kind 

To  stamp  approval  on  my  published  works 

And  glance  my  latent  powers. 


CRITIC. —  These  are  good  works. 

Out  of  the  godless  yet  good  works  shall  come, 
Though  peace  may  never  enter  in  to  dwell. 
O,  dear  lady,  you  seem  to  welcome  me  selfishly,  yet 
it  is  to  make  me  doubly  welcome  ;  while  for  these  vipers 
of  review,  they  either  mistake  me  for  a  fellow  critic  who 
runs  his  losing  race  alone,  or  assume  I  wrong  them  and 
support  the  assumption  on  the  belief ;  for,  indeed,  I  am 
the  mildest  of  a  most  gentle  school,  a  turtle  amongst 
doves ;  one  who  would  not  mock  their  dullest  thought, 
for  He  who  made  truth  also  made  silence. 
HOSTKSS. — Ho  !  entertainment  for  the  witty. 
LT.  MAN.— 

Originality  is  a  long  lost  art, 
Else  had  our  critic  not  been  thus  indebted 
For  his  initial  scorn  to  Shakespeare's  works. 
CRITIC. — You  do  me  wrong ;  I  borrow  scorn  of  none. 
I/r.  WOMAN. — 

Shakespeare  ?  some  say  his  authorship  '  s  a  thing 
To  make  a  question  of. 
HARRIET.  —  O  believe  me,  madam, 

Were  I  not  out  of  credit  with  the  time 
There  were  a  book  hanging  upon  my  lips — 
For  out  of  that  dear  love  I  bear  to  truth 
I'll  not  subscribe  myself  to  compliment, 
To  write  but  in  the  beaten  way  of  pens 
Forbearing  discourse  touching  what  is  new 
In  fear  of  slander  dwelling  in  the  new  ; 
So,  were  I  well  in  credit  with  the  time, 
That  not  but  publication  come  of  it, 


I  would  set  down  how  that  Elizabeth 
Conceived  these  dramas  that  mount  each  on  each 
Until  the  whole  seems  greater  than  its  parts 
That  climb  so  high,  and  make  for  all  the  world 
A  new  world,  madam,  and  a  new  Shakespeare 
For  ages. 

L,T.  MAN. — There  's  nothing  true  but  "gentle   Will." 

HOSTESS. — 

Miss  Spencer,  I  beseech  you  to  sing  to  us; 
And,  friends,  the  passing  evening  shall  be  closed 
With  reading  of  a  sonnet  by  Miss  Kenyon. 

HARRIET. — 

I'm  not  in  sonnet  humor;  let  it  go  by, 
And  read  your  ballad  to  this  gentleman 
Who  comes  so  tardily. 

HOSTESS. —  Pardon  me : 

I  am  not  flattered  that  he  still  delays 
To  freeze  a  period  to  applause. 

CRITIC. —  You're  kind. 

HOSTESS. — Miss  Spencer,  sing  to  us. 

VENETIA. —  Since  love  is  dead 

Between  you  two,  I  '11  bury  love  in  song. 

SONG. 

Come  from  the  sunny  South,  O  Spring, 

'Neath  ever-golden  skies, 
Come  from  the  swallow  on  the  wing 

Through  bloomy  spray  that  flies; 
Thy  bud  of  love  on  dewy  brier 

Was  all  in  vain; 
Thy  heart  of  pure  seraphic  fire 
Is  slain. 

222 


Crown  not  a  lover  rare,  O  Spring, 

On  happy  bridal  day; 
Fly  not  upon  the  swallow's  wing 

Through  falling  almond  spray; 
But  brush  thy  dews  from  chaliced  morn 

And  come  again, 

And  weep  beside  the  grave  forlorn 
Where  lyOve  is  lain. 

CRITIC. — A  sad  world,  my  masters,  and  not  half  acted. 
Believe  me,  Miss  Spencer,  your  voice  is  excuse  for  this 
lyric  of  your  brother's,  and  for  its  excuse,  rendered  with 
infinite  grace,  may  it  live. 

VENETIA. — Ah,  sir,  you  have  no  compliments  but 
upon  paper. 

HARRIET. — And  has  no  reasons  but  upon  paper. 
DRAKE. — By   his   criticisms   we   know   him :    he   has 
praised  the  singer ;  he  knows  what  is  graceful :  he  has 
denied  the  song ;  he  envies  what  is  graceful. 
HOSTESS. — 

You  have  spoken  all,     Miss  Kenyon,  look  on  this: 
Say  that  I  found  it — how  I  came  by  it, 
You  are  to  learn — and  since  the  thing  is  found 
It  shall  be  read. 

HARRIET. —  I  pray  you,  give  it  me, 

And  I  will  read  it  in  pure  courtesy. 
What  's  this,  a  sonnet? 
HOSTESS. —  Honor  unto  him 

Who  framed  the  sonnet,  or  rather  did  it  grow, 
Fed  on  Arcadian  dews  and  sylvan  light, 
And  song  Provencal. 

223 


HARRIET. —  That  asks  too  much.     (Reads) 

L/ady,  thy  daughter  is  a  glass  divine 

Wherein  thou  seest  thyself  as  God  sees  thee, 
For  thou  hast  nurtured  her  till  visibly 

She  is  become  those  actions  which  were  thine  : 

The  light  upon  her  forehead  doth  enshrine 
All  virtue,  gentleness  and  charity, 
All  love,  all  faith,  all  hope,  which  graciously 

Thou  didst  with  thy  sweet  motherhood  intwine. 

Her  face  lifts  up  thy  deeds  to  heaven  :  and  thou, 
Who  shall  be  visited,  ah,  never  more, 
Until  that  season  sweet  thy  dead  restore, 

By  airs  from  thy  departed  husband's  brow! 

Mayest  look  upon  thy  daughter's  face  and  see 

The  father's  eyes  which  keep  eternal  watch  o'er  thee. 

Our  failures  were  tolerable  were  it  not  for  our  defenders, 
else  would  I  ask  if  there  is  not  present  one  who  can  look 
deeper  than  all  the  schools  and  edify  me  why  it  is  that 
mine  and  mine  hostess'  sex  has  never  produced  a  master 
spirit  in  poetry. 

CLAUDIUS  .  — (Aside) 

It  has  not  in  its  heart  the  love  of  woman, 
Whereby  to  mount  the  heights  of  inspiration. 
HOSTESS. — 

IvO !  there  she  stands,  a  self-made  infidel 
To  Grecian  Sappho  and  that  lovely  twain 
That  sang  in  England's  front.     O  for  a  blush 
That  would  not  fade,  that  shame  might  never  down 
From  that  apostate  brow. 
HARRIET. —  Pity  me  then  ; 

Or  make  the  golden  rule  the  golden  deed 
And  turn  me  going. 

224 


HOSTESS. —  Yet  not  unchallenged 

Shall  you  deny  the  sex.     O  dear,  my  friends, 
Even  as  twilight  falls  come  this  day  week, 
And  I  shall  answer  this  unkindest  charge 
And  make  misjudgment  more  than  judgment  yield. 

I/T.  WOMAN. — O  doubt  us  not. 

HARRIET. —  Then  come  :  I'm  sure  each  guest 

Has  spent  a  pleasant  evening  ;  for  myself,  most  so. 

HOSTESS. — I  live  to  receive  my  friends ;  my  friends 
make  it  my  choice.  Come  out  beneath  the  palms  ;  mid- 
summer's twilight  long  lingers  the  parting  guest. 

CLAUDIUS. — (Aside) 

She  moves  with  the  arch  of  beauty  on  her  brow 
And  in  untroubled  youth  ;  and  I,  who  love 
The  very  name  of  woman,  must  love  the  truth. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    II. 

Scene  i. — A  public  square. 
Enter  Burke  and  Curtis. 

BURKK. — Mark  you,  Curtis,  here  is  a  familiar  spirit 
who,  since  he  must  be  beaten  by  brains,  will  have  them 

his  own. 

Enter  Todd. 

Well,  Dugal,  shall  you  pluck  that  gilded 
honor?  One  of  our  papers,  Curtis,  has  offered  an  hand- 
some sum  for  a  novel  polling  the  major  vote  of  its  literary 
committee,  at  which  prize  Todd  has  made  his  endeavor. 

TODD. — Gentlemen,  you  see  before  you  an  illustrious 
poet  and  novelist  made  in  the  image  of  himself,  yet,  as  I 
make  literature,  o'er-crowed  by  neither  an  author  nor  the 
son  of  an  author.  Ah,  gentlemen,  the  god  and  the  dream 
have  come  to  a  sad  pass  since  the  hope  of  American 
letters  rests  with  one  man  and  that  man  living  from  debit 
to  dun. 

BURKK. — Well,  nothing  succeeds  but  success,  you 
know — in  literature. 

TODD. — O  I  shall  keep  my  injury  rolling  till  'tis  bigger 
than  a  church  door  and  grosser  than  the  nose  act,  I  mean 
the  riot  act.  Why,  what  a  thing  it  is,  gentlemen,  that  a 
book  should  be  a  fever !  I  read  this  successful  work  on 
principle,  but  it  was  damned  poor  principle. 

226 


BURKK. — At  least  my  cousin  decided  in  your  favor?  he 
is  on  this  committee  of  twelve,  a  critic  of  critics — and, 
sure,  I  approached  him  in  the  matter. 

TODD. — I  thank  you,  Burke,  heartily,  heartily;  but 
you  know  the  proverb — Good  kith  hath  poor  kin. 

BURKK. — Is  't  possible  he  denied  me? 

TODD. — Very  like,  very  like.  But  here  's  my  consola- 
tion— there  Js  no  divinity  in  numbers;  twelve  asses'  heads 
don't  make  one  god-head.  By  'r  noses,  gentlemen,  since 
this  award  was  ratified  by  noses,  if  ye  will  stand  by  me 
I  '11  have  a  plaster  o'  paris  cast  of  our  noses  forwarded 
this  committee  as  a  petition  to  reconsider  the  award.  O 
lyord,  this  will  be  a  moving  petition  if  ever  there  was  a 
moving  petition.  Courage,  gentlemen,  where  there  's  an 
American  there  's  a  way.  [Exit. 

BURKK. — I  never  may  be  in  love  with  my  state  till 
hearing  a  foolish  fellow  discourse.  Surely  Providence 
made  fools  for  wisdom's  content,  and  made  no  two  fools 
alike. 

CURTIS. — 

I  understand  you  have  a  suit  with  me: 
What  is  it,  Burke? 

BURKK. —  Ay.    You  know  Claudius  Spencer  ? 

CURTIS. — Why,  so  I  do  ! 

BURKK. —  He  's  passionate,  sensitive,  proud; 

A  man  to  famish  on  opinion  'fore 
He  '11  feast  on  faction:  charitable  to  give, 
But  not  to  take  in  way  of  charity; 
And  every  gift  has  in  '  t  a  soul  of  insult 
Howsoe'er  the  giver  clothe  it  with  the  grace 

227 


Of  equality:  a  man  of  sterling  parts 
Deserving  a  wider  adulation  and 
The  means  to  ply  his  art. 

CURTIS. —  All  's  granted  here. 

BURKE. — 

He  's  poor,  and  comes  report  that  he  has  lost 
The  humble  means  he  had.     In  faith,  I  think 
God  keeps  the  poet  poor  to  find  him  tender. 

CURTIS. — Your  suit. 

BURKE. —  Now,  sir,  out  of  this  poverty 

Leaps  pride,  that,  yoked  unto  the  rest  of  him, 
Makes  him  a  very  bundle  of  offences — 
Since  there  is  no  offence  but  in  our  thoughts — 
And  cannot  but  smother  up  his  art  in  chaff 
At  the  enslaving  mart  unless  he  is  relieved. 
And  how  much  he  does  herein  play  the  fool, 
How  much  contraries,  is  for  fools  to  say; 
Suffice  I  cannot  be  open  in  my  love, 
And  needs  must  go  about  it  covertly. 

CURTIS. — Well,  very  well. 

BURKE. —  Curtis,  you  are  my  friend, 

And  silence  approves  that  bond. 

CURTIS. —  Let  's  hear  your  suit. 

BURKE. — 

Sir,  you  have  edited  within  the  East 
And  must  have  knowledge  and  authority 
Touching  my  project.     Is  't  not  possible, 
For  certain  sums  which  lie  at  your  command, 
To  buy  our  worthy  friend  into  the  staff 
Of  any  literary  magazine 
That  would  afford  him  living  near  his  art 
228 


And  throw  time  in  his  way,  that  he  effect 

His  clear  poetic  ends,  nor  be  the  wiser 

In  manner  of  procurement? 
CURTIS. —  JT  is  possible. 

BURKE. — 

Why,  so  I  think  ;  nor  be  penurious, 

And,  for  your  recompense,  my  hearty  thanks. 

He  oft  has  wished  position  in  the  East 

Where  his  collegiate  friends  are  under  yoke. 

Then  let  my  charity  fail  not  in  this. 
CURTIS. — 

In  New  York  City  I  can  place  him  thrice 

In  office  for  the  which  he  's  qualified. 
BURKE. — 'T  is  open  charity. 
CURTIS. —  But  I'm  engaged  : 

Appoint  a  time. 
BURKE. —  To-night,  at  eight  o'clock, 

Spencer  and  several  others  will  attend 

Within  my  rooms  ;  and  there  we  may  essay, 

Indirectly,  the  disposition  of  himself 

Nearest  our  means. 

CURTIS. —  You're  kind  :  I'll  come  :  adieu. 

{Exit. 

BURKE. — A  speculation  and  a  charity  it  is. 
Good  acquaintance  here  is  artifice  enough; 
Good  acquaintance  makes  good  riddance  of  Claudius 
Who  '11  draw  my  Harriet  on  to  leap  that  line 
Her  parents  have  chalked  forth  on  honor's  field, 
Losing  me  her  and  testament  enough 
To  breed  abundance  in  an  Indian  famine; 
For  sure  they  have  been  married  in  their  minds, 

229 


This  poet  and  this  melancholy  girl, 
And  should  I  fail  to  separate  them  soon 

That  marriage  will  have  a  corporal  body  in  't. 

[Exit. 

Scene  2. — Parlors  in  Kenyon's  house. 
Enter  Kenyan  and  Brewster. 

BREWSTER. — 

She  has  disputed  me — which  is  good  sign 

She  mends  within — and  has  the  irritability 

Of  health. 
KENYON. —  She  labors  wholly  at  her  book: 

She  has  collected  what  was  written  down 

And  edits  it  for  press. 
BREWSTER. —  Occupation  's  good. 

The  dubitable  honors  and  indubitable  labors 

Of  literature  may  soon  persuade  her  back 

Into  society,  when  once  inured 

Unto  this  growth  of  spirit  and  physical  ripening; 

But  in  the  meantime  leave  her  to  herself. 

Good  day. 

KENYON. —  We  're  much  beholden  to  you,  sir. 

\_Exit  Brewster. 
Is  not  the  best  physician  charity  ? 

Is  Harriet  strange  but  in  the  matter  of 
This  union  we  would  have  with  Stephen  Burke, 
Which  aim  her  mother  still  unhappily  keeps 
At  the  top  of  all  occasions  and  discourse  ? 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan. 
MRS.  KENYON. — 

Husband,  I  think  obedience  is  dead, 
Or  fixed  in  the  parent  and  declining  brow 
230 


Accounts  in  an  inverted  order,  for,  sir, 
I  ask  my  child,  as  duteous  as  her  hand, 
When  she  will  marry  Stephen  and  approve 
The  honor  of  her  parents  and  herself : 
Then  she  desired  to  know  what  length  of  time 
Her  mother  will  extend  her  wedding  day. 
Almost  upon  my  knees,  I  point  to  her 
That  marriage  is  a  question  of  person,  not  of  time ; 
To  which  she  answers,  "  I  will  be  his  wife 
When  I  am  hearsed." 

KKNYON. —  This  is  a  strange  'havior  :  ay  ! 

And  makes  me  loathe  her.     What,  her  mother  !  hush  ! 
I'll  speak  with  her. 

Enter  Harriet. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —     L,ook  where  she  comes  alone. 

L,et  us  go  hence  :  too  much  we  have  of  late 

Given  her  presence.     Come,  let  us  not  stay  ; 

Less  parent  love  may  prove  larger  child  love. 

Be  swayed  by  me. 
KKNYON. —  This  can,  at  least,  have  trial. 

{Exeunt  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kenyan. 

HARRIET. — 

Whether  in  nature  there  's  divinity 
That  shapes  belief,  resolving  in  our  thoughts 
And  in  persuasion  that  weighs  on  the  heart 
A  soul  of  inspiration,  which,  obeyed, 
Leads  on  to  purer  truths  and  better  days 
Through  that  ideal  preceding  still  the  real, 
Fain  would  I  know  that  I  might  know  myself. 
And  when  I  look  in  nature  with  a  mind 

231 


Which  is  of  nature,  nature  I  perceive 

Is  most  divinely  shaped,  and  who  so  rude 

As  to  attempt  to  sever  thought  from  nature 

That  not  this  outward  pressure  and  sequence 

Give  inward  thought ;  which,  of  divinity 

Directing  us,  needs  be  divinity 

To  direct  us  still.     And  this  should  give  us  faith 

That  there  's  a  parentage  in  all  who  breathe, 

And  none  so  humble  but  that,  being  moved, 

Should  make  him  an  engagement  of  belief, 

Though  yet  his  deeds  have  part  with  accident, 

For  accident  of  flesh  is  argument 

Of  spirit  till  the  consummation  is 

Or  custom  's  overthrown.     Then  let  it  stand 

I  shall  not  marry  without  perfect  love, 

That  I  may  cherish  still  the  pure  ideal 

That  's  never  lost;  losing  myself  for  love. 

Enter  Idilia. 

IDIUA. — Has  my  cousin  a  wish? 

HARRIET. — Ay. 

IDILIA. — What  is  't? 

HARRIET. — I  would  you  were  my  husband. 

IDILIA. — Why? 

HARRIET. — I  would  kiss  you. 

IDILIA. — I  will  weep. 

HARRIET. — What  is  love,  cousin? 

IDILIA. — A  poet  and  not  comprehend  love  ! 

HARRIET. — The  poets  are  not  vessels  of  comprehension 
but  vessels  for  comprehension.  Come,  what  is  love? 
Ay,  answer  me  that  and  I  will  answer  the  sphinx. 

232 


IDIUA. — That  kind  of  love  we  are  never  to  touch 
upon,  neither  waking  nor  dreaming? 

HARRIET. — Ay. 

IDIUA. — Surely  the  master  passion  has  beginning  and 
end,  height  and  depth, — I  have  loved:  is  qualified  by  time 
and  circumstance, — I  have  sounded  its  depths  and  shoals: 
and  has  much  about  its  mystery  that  is  of  nature, — I  have 
looked  on  its  mortality:  yet  I  know  not  what  in  nature 
it  is. 

HARRIET. — Very  likely  it  is  as  gold  in  nature,  having, 
as  yet,  no  analysis.  And  shall  we  not  discover  the  phil- 
osopher stone  of  love,  as  't  were,  subduing  nature  with 
nature  even  to  the  top  and  bent  of  will  ? 

IDIUA. — Nay,  gold  is  the  philosopher  stone  of  love, 
love  the  philosopher  stone  of  gold. 

HARRIET. — So,  so  !  gold  is  the  philosopher  stone  of 
love.  I  could  make  merry  now  with  an  onion:  I  see  an 
old  friend  in  this  argument.  O  there  are  great  days  to- 
ward, cousin,  or  nights  rather,  wherein  we  shall  draw 
the  moon  to  approved  brine  with  subdued  loves.  I  would 
I  were  alive. 

IDIUA. — You  are  not  in  love;  you  are  too  melancholy 
to  be  a  lover. 

HARRIET. — Only  the  melancholy  know  how  to  love; 
which  is  to  say,  only  a  lover  knows  how  to  love:  but  I  am 
not  in  love.  Were  you  ever  in  love? 

IDIUA. — Who  wreathed  my  hair  with  orange  blossoms 
at  four,  and  brought  crushed  lilies  to  the  mimic  altar? 

HARRIET. — But  yesterday  subdued  to  all  sacrifices  for 
love :  to-day  jocund  and  big  with  mocks  even  in  the  per- 

233 


son  and  matter  of  your  passion.  Teach  me,  is  it  thus? 
and  with  new  knowledge  comes  new  appetite. 

IDILIA. — Speak  of  sin  and  be  a  prophet. 

HARRIET. — True;  slander  riddles  us  all.  'Tis  strange, 
'tis  strange,  'tis  material  strange.  Then,  why  should  we 
not  cast  out  love  when  it  weighs  with  more  palpable 
stuff?  If  love  but  serves  its  little  day  and  is  no  more, 
should  we  not  make  its  absence  a  kind  of  sickness  and 
recover?  I  will  think  on  't.  Pray  you,  loved  you  ever 
where  you  formerly  detested  ? 

IDILIA. — Not  I,  Harriet.  But  truly  I  am  a  better  lover 
for  my  loves. 

HARRIET. — No  :  the  lover  is  not  wiser  by  experience 
nor  perfected  through  practice. 

IDIUA. — I^et  me  think. 

HARRIET. — Where  does  all  true  love  go  to,  cousin? 

IDIUA. — Lord  Love,  defend  me. 

HARRIET. — What  is  the  end  of  love? 

IDILIA. — Marriage. 

HARRIET. — I  know  how  to  take  you,  cousin,  but  I 
know  not  how  to  take  the  difference.  And  love  is  not 
enduring;  love  's  a  dream;  love  is  nothing,  begot  of  noth- 
ing, nourished  by  nothing,  nourishes  nothing,  and  returns 
to  nothing;  more  than  peace  and  less  than  dust;  the 
beauty  of  romance,  the  folly  of  flesh  and  blood;  the  jewel 
of  the  lips,  the  canker  of  the  heart.  Then,  if  you  love, 
love  on:  for  myself,  I  will  put  love  away  and  live  for  what 
remains;  but  without  love  I  will  never  marry. 

IDILIA. — I  will  give  you  to  drink  new  wine  from  an 
old  bottle  and  intoxicate  the  spirit.  Some  are  born 

234 


for  marriage,  some  achieve  marriage,  and  some  have 
marriage  thrust  upon  'em.  Go  to,  you  were  born  with  a 
veil. 

HARRIET. — Hark  you,  Idilia,  if  you  will  have  the  pity 
of  Jt.  Some  are  born  for  bachelorhood,  some  achieve 
bachelorhood,  and  some  have  bachelorhood  thrust  upon 
them.  I  am  one — well,  we  mingle  our  innocence  apace. 

IDILIA. — I  dreamed  about  you  last  night. 

HARRIET. — Ay,  what  did  you  dream  about  me  ?  I 
would  like  to  know  the  tricks  I  play  in  dreams, 

IDILIA. — I  dreamed  you  would  grow  to  be  a  mocker. 

HARRIET. — Dreams  oft  have  some  soul  of  prophecy, 
for  dreams  are  oft  of  uneasiness  ;  now  uneasiness  is  of 
fear,  fear  is  of  respect,  respect  is  of  judgment,  judgment 
is  of  reason,  and  reason  is  of  probability.  Therefore,  I 
do  not  marvel  at  prophetic  dreams.  I  myself,  but  an  in- 
different dreamer,  have  dreamed  of  things  that  have  come 
to  pass  : — yea,  I  have  fulfilled  a  dream  purposely  that 
these  things  come  to  pass.  This  is  prophecy  by  incita- 
tion.  And  love  is  not  enduring  ? 

IDII.IA. — I  fear  Harriet  has  journeyed  into  that  world 
out  of  which  but  dreamers  come. 

Enter  Edmund. 

HARRIET. — Cousin  Edmund,  you  are  very  welcome. 
What  is  your  philosophy  of  life?  tell  me  that,  cousin. 

EDMUND. — My  philosophy  in  life — is  to  live  right  on. 

HARRIET. — O,  you  men,  you  men,  how  tough  your  sides 
are  !  I  envy  you  earth  and  allow  you  what  's  to  come. 

EDMUND. — Yes,  man  is  well  attended  in  his  passage  ; 
a  philosopher  and  inheritor  of  two  worlds.  About  what 

235 


he  is,  he  needs  no  assurance ;  by  the  faith  of  what  he  is 
to  be,  he  cheers  up  the  rosy  hours. 

HARRIET. — Heaven  and  earth !  to  be  tethered  by  your 
own  sweet  will  and  commendation  ;  not  to  dream  but  to 
do ;  to  be  more  than  a  picture  and  not  less  than  modest. 
O  for  the  apparel  of  a  man  !  to  speak  right  on  ;  for  a  cus- 
tom that  is  not.  But,  indeed,  the  graceful  are  the  free, 
and  what  I  lack  in  freedom  I  lack  in  grace.  I  think, 
cousin,  I  have  something  of  a  man's  philosophy  but  a 
woman's  heart,  and  between  the  two  I  am  neither  woman 
nor  reason. 

EDMUND. — Neither  rhythm  nor  reason;  for  woman  is 
the  rhythm,  man  the  reason. 

HARRIET. — And  what  is  rhythm  without  reason? — 
mere  prettiness  without  truth. 

EDMUND. — And  what  is  reason  without  rhythm  ? — 
mere  knowledge  without  beauty. 

HARRIET. — The  conclusion  is,  man  and  woman  are 
equal  but  different ;  but  the  conclusion  is  not  always 
the  world. 

EDMUND. — That  is  true. 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan,  Claudius,  Venetia,  Drake,  and  Burke. 

MRS.  KENYON. — Alter  ipse  amicus. 

HARRIET. — O  you  are  welcome,  welcome  all.  I  have 
here  some  poor  company  that  has  its  hour  and  departs  ; 
my  thoughts,  my  thoughts.  Welcome  :  shall  we  play  at 
life? 

MRS.  KENYON. — Miss  Spencer  is  your  only  visitor. 
The  gentlemen  are  come  to  have  returned  Mr.  Spencer's 
manuscript  and  depart. 

236 


HARRIET. — By  your  leave.  [Exit. 

MRS.  KKNYON. — 

My  daughter's  writings  end  with  this  forenoon: 
Her  book  shall  go  to  press  immediately. 

BURKE. — To  know  the  author  is  to  know  the  work. 

MRS.  KENYON. — 

Harriet  inherits  her  father's  charming  talents, 
Her  mother's  sympathy  and  intuition. 

Re-enter  Harriet. 

HARRIET. — (Giving  Claudius  manuscript.) 
I  've  but  one  art  and  that  has  lost  its  heart 
Amidst  a  world  of  worth. 

BURKE.— (Aside)      'Twill  "  blast  i'  the  bud  :" 
A  tool  's  a  prophet. 

CLAUDIUS. —  The  difference  is  all. 

My  verse  is  rough  hewn  and  audacious  ;  yours 
As  light  as  airs  that  haunt  the  lyric  muse. 

MRS.  KENYON. — In  truth,  there  's  much  in  that. 

HARRIET. —  I  never  can 

Read  what  exceeds  my  powers  but  I  'm  obscured 

For  many  hours  :  and  even  as  the  artist 

Looking  against  the  noontide's  sun  's  confounded 

In  all  design,  I,  in  the  pens  of  ages, 

Lose  art  and  action,  mocking  what  is  written 

And  despairing  of  what 's  to  come. 

CLAUDIUS. —  A  noble  despair 

And  seizes  oft  on  all  that  write. 

BURKE. —  'Tis  so: 

Yet  frequent  reading  these  transcendent  works 
Finds  us  all  poets  and  keeps  us  so. 

237 


HARRIET. —  Ay,  sir. 

And  all  great  works  are  multitudinous ; 
Not  one  lone  meaning  do  they  yield  us  up, 
But  every  line  rewrites  the  work  again, 
For  beauty  is  legion,  and  where  one  is  blind 
Another  has  eyes  and  understanding. 
DRAKE. —  Much  upon  these  thoughts 

Still  hang  the  miracles  of  the  master  poets: 
And  there 's  a  soul  in  nature  that  with  time 
Inverts  the  spirit,  that  from  satire  springs 
Reverence,  from  humor,  pathos ;  in  history 
We  see  what  's  hideous  grow  wondrous  fair, 
What  's  fair  grow  hideous. 
HARRIET. —  I've  noticed  that. 

O  you've  a  spirit  for  infinite  toil, 
And  poetry  seems  but  another  name  for  duty, 
To  write  this  worthy  poem,  Mr.  Spencer, 
But  to  resolve  you  in  the  kind  of  epic 
You  shall  set  down. 

CLAUDIUS. —  I  am  resolved  therein  : 

And  what  is  ancient  here  grows  modern. 
HARRIET. — I  chiefly  admire  Conselus'  speech  when  he 
returns  from  the  mountain  of  lona,  where  he  was  one, 
"Not  dead,  neither  sleeping,  but  learning,"  and  discovers 
his  country  divided  against  itself ;  thereupon  to  plead  in 
the  name  of  his  country's  dead  hero,  who  lies  buried  on 
lona's  summit,  for  instant  and  perpetual  peace. 

MRS.  KENYON. — I'm  very  sure  Mi*.  Spencer  will  read 
us  this. 

CLAUDIUS. — If  you  choose,  I  will. 
MRS.  KENYON. — I  choose,  sir. 

238 


CLAUDIUS. — I  will  come  without  additional  circum- 
stance to  the  speech ;  suffice  the  hero  Miss  Kenyon 
speaks  of  and  the  prophet  herein  are  one.  (Reads) 

Impassioned  rose  Conselus  in  their  midst 

And  fulminated  o'er  the  plumed  hosts  : 

L,o,  where  lona  glory-capped  climbs  the  dawn, 

High  o'er  the  sable  pageants  of  this  earth 

The  shocks  of  empire  and  the  pride  of  man, 

A  sacred  covenant  'tween  heart  and  heart, 

Thy  prophet's  bones  have  been  forever  laid. 

How  hath  the  hills  aspired  with  their  dead, 

Visited  but  by  the  day  star's  peaceful  beam  ; 

Yet  not  among  the  untrodden  ways  of  woe 

Dwells  the  immortal  spirit  of  those  bones, — 

Grim-visaged  war,  upon  the  prophet's  head, 

Tiptoed  to  heaven  shakes  her  bloody  star, 

And  sweeps  the  vulture  to  prophetic  feast ; 

Troubling  that  prophet's  spirit  that  did  stem 

The  tides  of  prophecy  and  prophesy 

A  drunkard  throned  upon  our  cedared  hills 

When  to  our  hearts  our  hands  should  prove  untrue  : 

A  prophet  whose  sincerest  spirit  taught, 

Perfection  is  a  dream,  truth  is  a  work; 

A  nature  that  arises  with  clear  voice 

When  truth's  divinity  is  given  man 

Borne  on  the  widening  and  prophetic  years: — 

And  yet  a  little  while  was  in  our  midst, 

But  now  is  sleeping  in  the  sacred  vault 

Hewn  in  the  glory  of  the  eastern  steeps. 

He  was  the  spirit  of  our  fond  desires; 

239 


The  North  was  in  his  bosom  and  his  love 
Carne  like  the  smiling  morn  upon  the  East 
After  the  black  sulphurous  storms  of  night, 
And,  filled  with  the  blush  of  morning,  from  the  hills 
Pulled  down  the  thunderbolt  and  crowned  Peace  there. 
By  his  so  gracious  hand  the  martial  East 
Has  ceased  to  thunder,  and  the  bounteous  West 
Brings  forth  its  foison  to  the  harvest  feast: 
By  his  so  gracious  works  there  sits  no  court 
In  open  session  and  in  secret  shame; — 
Hath  flown  the  winged  wolf  from  the  Capitol, 
And  from  the  gates  is  razed  the  bloody  shield: 
By  his  so  gracious  heart  and  genial  mind 
The  arts  have  flourished  and  the  truth  has  sprang  ; 
And  from  the  field  a  path  leads  to  the  court 
When  humble  loins  uncommon  metal  yield, 
Nor  is  unknown  a  glory  o'er  that  path: 
While  from  our  hearts  his  spirit  looks  on  law, 
Whose  face  is  the  most  green  and  bounteous  fields 
That  none  so  low  but  Justice  stoop  to  him. 
And  shall  divided  sons,  in  pride  of  hate, 
Rear  war  between  his  nature  and  his  rest, 
And  earth  seat  winter  in  Elysium's  fields? 
Never,  whilst  there  is  gratitude  in  man  ! 
Peace  is  the  victory  thou  shalt  acclaim 
Unto  the  radiant  rack  o'er  lona's  hill ; 
Peace  is  the  besom  that  from  heaven's  hill 
Shall  sweep  the  vulture  with  his  carrion  wing. 
Then  shall  this  azure  vault  be  all  for  God, 
For  truth,  and  for  our  country's  steadfast  star; 
And  alien  darkness  and  barbarous  horde 
240 


Never  shall  be  on  our  most  divinest  land, 

Nor  blood  be  our  frontier,  nor  Chaos  king. 
MRS.  KENYON. — There  's  persuasion  in  it. 
HARRIET. —  There 's  music  in  a  name; 

And  he,  who  is  the  hero  of  these  lines, 

Is  worthy  his  persuasion.     An  impassioned  speech 

Of  large  repose. 

BURKE. — (Aside)      Nay,  depose  ;  mark,  depose. 
CLAUDIUS. — 

Your  praise  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 

Adieu. 

BURKE. — First    congratulating    Miss  Kenyon   on   the 
completion  of  her  book. 

HARRIET. — Pray,  sir,  do  not  mention  it.     Good  day, 
gentlemen.  [Exeunt  all  but  Harriet  and  Venetia. 

Hark  you,  Venetia,  I'll  play  the  counselor  : 

Fortune  's  a  fool  to  give  you  these  sweet  lips 

And  not  the  world  :  God-gifted  at  the  throat, 

But  Fortune  's  mute,  unknown  and  unadored, 

You  stand  drooping. 

VENETIA. —  Hush  !  do  not  praise  my  voice. 

HARRIET. — 

Nay,  do  not  praise  the  dead  that  should  have  wrought 

Intemporal  beauty  from  a  temporal  seat. 

How  golden  is  your  hair ;  mine  is  as  dark 

As  strangled  midnight.     I  hate  it ! 
VENETIA. —  Say  not  so  : 

It  becomes  you  well. 
HARRIET. —  Have  you  no  wish  a  master 

Would  train  your  voice  up  in  the  way  of  art 

As  high  as  heaven  ? 

241 


VENETIA. —  Alas,  alas,  alas  ! 

HARRIET. — {Fondling    Venetians  hair)   Venetia,    will 

you  daff  these  locks  for  art  ? 
VENETIA. — 

Fie,  not  for  any  art  beneath  the  sun  ! 

Nor  for  all  that  which  has  the  power  to  shake 

The  soul  of  woman,  and  evil  angels  essay. 

Methinks  I  scent  the  morning  of  high  madness. 
HARRIET. — 

Ye  angels  that  mew  your  feathers  for  charity, 

And  line  the  darkness  of  this  faithless  world, 

Make  me  as  rich  as  is  this  hair-proud  maid. 

Briefly,  Venetia,  when  that  sun  is  set 

Your  star  is  risen. 
VENETIA. —  And  in  its  sweet  influence 

Draws  up  a  sea  of  hearts? 
HARRIET. —  Be  not  like  Absalom 

And  let  your  hair  undo  you.     Shall  the  hair 

Make  war  against  the  music  in  the  soul  ? 

What  's  in  the  wonder  of  a  woman's  hair  ? 

What  's  in  the  color  of  a  woman's  hair  ? 

Where  tides  the  man  to  whom  these  curls  are  law  ? 

There  is  no  certain  spider  in  your  eye 

That  you  should  hold  this  golden  web  so  dear, 

Spun  by  the  careless  years. 
VENETIA. —  Your  hair  was  ever  dark, 

And  has  the  passions  in  't. 
HARRIET. —  'Tis  a  university 

And  hath  an  hundred  scholars,  Venetia, 

Wasting  their  revenues  as  they  grow  wiser. 
242 


VENETIA. — 

When  you  are  angered,  what  a  frown  is  here; 
When  you  are  glad,  'tis  studded  with  sunbeams; 
When  you  are  studious,  it  is  all  of  thought; 
When  you  are  injured,  it  leaps  up  a  crown; 
But  when  you  're  plotting,  I  think  on  Lucifer 
And  stand  aloof. 

HARRIET. —  A  starry  throne  is  stooping, 

Be  steadfast. 

VENETIA. —         Ah  me,  dear  friend,  this  is  attainment 
Of  all  my  fondest  sighs;  then  come,  cruel  shears, 
And  shear  away  these  threads  of  sincere  gold. 

HARRIET. — 

Look  now,  I  make  a  plummet  of  a  hair 

To  sound  your  heart  and  learn  the  depth  of  it. 

'Tis  deeper  than  my  thousand  broken  hearts— 

For  I  break  heart  with  every  day  I  live — 

Mine  own,  mine  own;  and  they  come  easily. 

Venetia,  I  humbly  press  my  suit 

Never  to  pause  that  this  melodious  voice 

Come  unto  seed  of  sorrow,  but  take  the  hour 

And  give  me  leave  to  furnish  you  with  means 

To  school  your  gifted  voice. 

VENETIA. —  You  're  kind  indeed. 

HARRIET. — 

Still  Fortune's  minions  are  her  instruments, 
Then  may  I  be  your  patron  and  buy  art 
For  one  of  nature's  stars — for  such  you  are — 
Knowing  your  voice  and  musical  discourse 
Travailed  through  art  to  go  upon  the  stage, 

243 


A  star  to  rain  influence  on  the  arts: 
And  let  success — if  it  must  be,  Venetia — 
Make  patronage  a  loan. 

VENETIA.—  I  dare  not  think  on  't. 

HARRIET. — O  dare  all  thoughts,  consider  all  deeds. 

VENETIA. —  No,  no. 

And  yet  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  intent. 

HARRIET.— 

Nor  never  dream  a  patron's  purse  string  serpent 
To  eat  your  pride  away.     Sure,  human  gifts 
Like  your  clear  voice  are  not  particular 
To  pause  at  wing.     Who  sees  a  beauteous  fall 
Suckling  twin  rainbows  at  her  lucent  breasts 
That  smiled  at  dawn,  but  in  him  stirs  a  covenant 
To  guard  her  brood,  whose  accident  man  is  heir  to, 
Nor  craves  but  that  her  womb  ne'er  bear  less  freight  ? 
Who  tastes  the  odor  of  a  morning  rose, 
That  has  a  memory  in  't,  but  treads  the  worm, 
Nor  craves  but  that  the  rose  still  glut  on  dew  ? 
Who  eats  a  rare  fruit  candied  by  the  sun 
But  gathers  up  the  seed  and  arms  the  bough, 
Nor  craves  but  that  in  season  they  bear  bud? 
Who  hears  the  sweetest  singer  of  the  field 
Make  melody  that  's  something  more  than  song, 
But  has  some  hand  to  shield  it  from  the  thorn, 
Nor  craves  but  that  its  heart  be  born  each  hour? 
And  shall  it  be  the  less  with  human  largess 
That  touches  us  more  near?     O  no,  sweet  friend, 
Who  treasures  beauty  treasures  her  own  soul: 
Let  other  largess  be  not  guarded  less 

244 


But  human  more.     Then  may  I  be  your  patron, 
And  you  my  nightingale. 

VENETIA. —  For  this  intent 

All  thanks,  heaped  to  my  eyes;  but  hush,  O  hush  ! 

'T  is  ill  I  dally  with  the  thought  of  art 

Who  late  renounced  the  deed,  and  these  sweet  hopes 

Have  passed  for  aye  from  the  face  of  all  but  dreams. 

'T  would  make  my  father  grieve  in  his  old  age 

To  leave  him  childless,  for  my  brother  Claude 

Being  a  man,  later  or  earlier, 

Must  go  his  way,  and  while  my  father  lives 

'T  is  my  renunciation  and  my  duty 

To  minister  to  him.     After,  there  's  naught. 

HARRIET. — Ah  ! 

VENETIA. — Harriet,  au  revoir.  I  have  to  visit  many 
parishioners  of  my  heart  this  afternoon  :  au  tevoir. 

HARRIET. —  Adieu,  Venetia.  Our  remembrance  to 
that  reverened  minister,  your  father. 

VENETIA. — Father's  and  mine  to  yours.  Once  more, 
adieu.  \_Exit. 

Re-enter  Idilia. 

HARRIET. — 'T  is  wrong,  Idilia,  't  is  wrong — I  say  't  is 
wrong — wrong  to  do,  wrong  to  ask  :  a  thousand  times 
wrong.  Ah,  but  it  is  beautiful ! 

IDIUA. — What  is  beautiful,  cousin  ? 

HARRIET. — Why,  life,  life,  honors,  adorations,  art,  self; 
yea,  self.  O  to  deny  the  truth  of  many  things. 

IDILIA. — What  would  you  deny  the  truth  of? 

HARRIET. —I  would  deny  the  truth   of  renunciation. 

245 


What  is  a  poet  but  a  mere  child  wreathing  scented  blos- 
soms in  a  scented  world  !  Bah !  Shall  this  large  scope 
and  faculty  for  truth  be  lost  in  an  exquisite  sonnet  after 
the  Italian  ?  I  shall  take  to  prose  of  large  utterance  and 
absolute  :  yea,  and  utter  in  example  always. 

IDIUA. — Who  fed  you  on  shadows?  'twas  not  your 
cousin. 

HARRIET. — Where  do  we  get  our  pity,  cousin  ? 

IDIUA. — From  the  miserable.     I  pity  ye. 

HARRIET. — And  after  we  have  it,  we  spend  it  liberally 
on  the  miserable — we  pity  them.  I  pray  you  tell  me  this: 
what  becomes  of  that  woman  having  no  trade,  no 
means,  no  strength,  when  suddenly  thrust  on  the  world  ? 

IDIUA. — She  has  nowhere  to  lay  her  head. 

HARRIET. — Nay,  ever  a  woman  has  where  to  lay  her 
head. 

IDIUA. — Where  is  that? 

HARRIET. — Where  it  ache. 

IDIUA. — O  stay  at  home  !  there  's  rest  at  home. 

HARRIET. — Would  not  the  drapery  of  this  room,  look 
you,  these  matchless  robes  that  hang  priceless  thread  by 
thread,  house  the  houseless  within  the  radius  of  a  mile? 
The  tranquil  in  heart  see  beauty  ;  I  often  come  where  I 
hear  of  it  but  cannot  find  it. 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan. 
MRS.  KENYON. — 

My  gracious  Harriet  and  gentle  Idilia, 
A  present  from  your  mothers  in  dear  love, — 
Two  necklaces  o'er-wrought  with  chosen  pearl. 
I'll  compass  you  about. 

[Clasps  a  necklace  on  Idilia,  then  on  Harriet. 
246 


Be  ever  happy,  and  take  this  to  heart — 

If  mothers  grow  fretful  and  seeming  harsh 

'T  is  not  we  hate  our  children  but  are  old. 

I'll  not  stay  thanks.  [Exit. 

IDIUA. —  So  choice  and  appropriate  gift 

Deserves  my  thanks.     I'll  search  my  mother  out. 

HARRIET. — Now  I  am  alone.  [Exit. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hartland. 

Now  I  am  not.     Dost  know  the  proverb,  aunt  ? 
MRS.  HARTLAND. — Which,  niece? 
HARRIET. — Why,  speak  of  marriage  and  a   gracious 
widow   appears.     Alas,    why   do    you    not   make  some 
single  gentleman  happy? 
MRS.  HARTLAND. — Niece  ! 

HARRIET. — Shall  love  outlive  marriage,  tell  me  that  ? 
MRS.  HARTLAND. — Niece,  niece,  niece  ! 
HARRIET. — And  good,  marry  an   elderly  gentleman, 
dear  my  love;  I  love  elderly  gentlemen,  "sapient  sirs." 
Does  not  my  necklace  of  pearl  become  me  passing  well  ? 
I  am  a  disputed  national  beauty. 

MRS.  HARTLAND. — Where  is  Idilia,  niece? 
HARRIET. — Idilia  is  searching  for  Harriet's  aunt. 
MRS.  HARTLAND. — I  thank  you,  niece,  I  will  go  to 
her.     Pray,  will  you  not  marry  Mr.  Stephen  Burke  ? 

HARRIET. — Ay,  when  you  doff  that  cap  and  be  a  maid 
again.  Good  night,  dear,  good  night,  dear  ;  good  night, 
good  night,  good  night.  (Sings) 

Love  's  a  shepherd, 
Memories  his  flock ; 
And  its  step  is  music, 
And  its  step  is  music, 
To  his  heart, 

To  his  heart.  [Exeunt. 

247 


ACT  III. 

Scene  i. — A  room  in  Spencer's  house. 

Enter  Claudius. 
ClvAUDIUS. — 

I  should  have  known  ;  there  was  the  means  to  know; 

Question  there  was  and  opportunity, 

And  yet  I  did  not  know,  nor  sought  to  know  : 

There  was  but  her  and  this  great  love  I  bear  ; 

No  more  ;  and  now  she  is  more  glorious 

And  I  more  lost.     No  more  to  dream  her  mine 

Through  flattery  of  hope  and  fortitude 

To  slave  the  beating  tide  ;  no  more  to  hope 

Yet  still  to  remember  ;  no  faint  star  to  preach 

Sweet  patience  to  a  soul  new  hurled  from  bliss  : 

The  promised  bride  of  Stephen  Burke,  my  friend  ! 

O,  happy,  happy  friend,  whose  bride  shall  be 

The  sweetest  lady  in  the  walks  of  youth  ! 

And  wretched  me  with  whom  all  good  is  o'er 

And  naught  to  come  !     Then  farewell,  sweet  Harriet, 

May  love,  beauty,  and  truth  be  with  you  still  ; 

One  last  farewell,  and  then  in  exile  drear 

I  take  my  duties  up  to  find  this  life 

A  fevered  span  betwixt  thee  and  oblivion. 

[  Exit. 

Scene  2. — Conservatory  in  Kenyon's  house. 
Enter  Harriet  (with  a  harp)  and  Idilia. 

HARRIET. — Idilia,  I  am  your  lover ;  I  will  sing  to  thee. 

IDIUA — What  pretty  is. 

HARRIET. — Take  this   morning  rose  and   wear  it  in 

248 


your  hair  ;  I  have  a  song  for  it.  Does  not  my  lover's 
melancholy  become  me  very  well  ? 

iDiiyiA. — Why,  no  more  than  reason. 

HARRIET. — O  reason,  reason,  if  I  ever  dwelt  with  you, 
it  was  in  Erebus  !  (Sings:  harp  accompaniment .) 

My  L,ove  dwells  not  in  faint  dreams 
That  haunt  the  lover's  night 

Where  sleeps  the  silver  moon; 
Her  hair  's  a  bank  of  sunbeams 
Where  springs  a  bud  of  light, 
The  clear  red  rose  of  June: 
And  sweeter  far  than  darkling  wine 
Is  the  love  light  in  her  eyne. 

IDILIA. — 

I/>,  up  the  silence  come  the  steps  of  song, — 
A  maiden  singing  with  double  heart  for  lips; 
Sweet  Harriet  singing  where  the  wild  bee  sips, 
Sweet  Harriet  singing  'neath  the  lilac  tree 
With  dulcet  lips  still  washed  in  climbing  dew. 

HARRIET. — 

Will  you  still  mar  my  poetry  with  your  readings  ? 
This  was  sweet  Pauline,  Lady  of  my  Muse. 

IDIUA. — 

Beseech  you,  cousin,  give  to  me  the  harp, 
That  I  may  knot  it  with  some  simple  spray 
Of  orange,  or  this  bloom  of  nameless  sweet, 
Whose  amour  with  the  wanton  sunbeam  is 
The  sweetness  of  the  casement. 

249 


HARRIET. —  Take  it  up; 

It  has  a  chord  that  's  crossed  in  love,  heavy 
As  my  sad  heart  strung  with  a  string  untuned. 
The  price  of  happiness  is  eternal  pain ! 
And  yet  I  care  not  to  be  happy,  I; 
Happiness  is  a  nuisance  withal,  Idilia. 

IDIUA. — 

I  think  my  cousin  's  an  aeolian  harp, 

And  mournfully  is  moved  in  some  deep  grot 

Haunted  with  lovers'  sighs. 

HARRIET. —  That  I  am  sad, 

I  '11  not  deny  out  of  a  truth- whole-heart, 
Making  a  legacy  of  heaviness 
Unto  the  gentle;  that  I  am  in  love, 
You  have  the  testimony  of  darling  youth, 
Of  manhood — and  no  time  so  barren  but 
Has  manhood — and  moreover  certain  verse, 
But  I  have  that  within,  Idilia,  which 
Without  the  substance  can  the  shadow  cast. 

IDIUA. — 

You  speak  of  manhood,  speak  of  yesterday  : 
'T  is  gone ;  the  time  has  fallen  into  shapes, — 
What  door  the  spirit  made  its  exit  at, 
I  am  to  learn — and  now  there  does  not  breathe 
An  heroic  man. 

HARRIET. —  You  cannot  plummet  me ; 

I'm  deeper  than  did  ever  woman  sound. 
I'll  praise  no  man,  that  thereby  you  may  guess 
Who  has  made  me  melancholy  and  passing  strange. 

250 


I  understand  you  not,  nor  will  I  so. 
I  say  that  the  heroic  is  no  more, 
And  for  the  past  I  live  :  tiptoe  on  story 
I  watch  its  heroic  pageantry  go  by. 
HARRIET. — 

L,et  me  live  for  the  present,  not  the  past ; 
Nor  spend  the  pith  and  marrow  of  my  day 
Erecting  from  the  bones  of  the  departed, 
Long  since  resolved  into  the  milk  of  nature, 
Brave  giants  to  counsel  Jove  at  his  own  court ; 
Most  profound  sires,  whose  glory  was  wellfare, 
Whose  honor  unanimity,  whose  willing  works 
Were  human  nature's  benign  and  mounting  stuff; 
Young  men  almost  to  be  linked  with  the  Best ; 
Heavenly  matrons  and  daughters  all  like  Ruth  ; 
And  children  every  one  a  cherubin  ; 
To  the  rude  pulling  down  and  quick  reproach 
Of  living  mortality  :  and,  least  in  that, 
Deny  to-day  with  an  Utopia  future 
Wherein  man's  every  attribute  is  like 
A  soul  of  excellence  and  dwells  harmonious  ; 
For  I  am  sure  within  the  forward  hour 
There  is  a  glory  whose  like  is  not  before, 
Whose  sweetness  still  shall  woo  the  tenderness 
And  bards  and  song. 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —      Idilia,  hence,  for  shame. 
Put  down  your  harp  ;  attentive  spirits  'tend 
The  airs  of  your  step  :  go  into  the  garden,  love, 

251 


Your  sweet  schoolfellows  brush  away  its  dews 

Thrice  giving  you  o'er. 

IDIUA. —  O  rarest  spirits  all !  [Exit. 

MRS.  KENYON. — 

Daughter,  you  too  are  called  ;  then  come  your  ways. 
HARRIET. — I   pray  you,    mother,    is   Stephen   Burke 

within  ? 

MRS.  KKNYON. — Ay,  so  he  is. 
HARRIET. —  Therein  I  am  engaged, 

And  begged  to  be  excused. 
MRS.  KENYON. —      Answered  is  Stephen: 

And  how  shall  I  be  answered  ? 
HARRIET. —  If  truth  's  a  dream, 

Why,  then,  I  am  a  dreamer  in  her  dream; 

If  truth  is  not  a  dream,  pity  me  then, 

And  pray  it  were. 

MRS.  KENYON. —      Why  this  disgression?  speak. 
HARRIET. — 

That  Stephen  Burke  is  not  fit  company 

Forme,  my  father's  daughter. 
MRS.  KENYON. —      Merciful  heaven  ! 
HARRIET. — 

That  Stephen  Burke  is  not  fit  company 

For  me,  my  mother's  daughter. 
MRS.  KENYON. —      How  speak  you  thus? 
HARRIET. — 

As  one  having  no  purpose  in  her  heart 

That  dulls  the  finer  edge. 
MRS.  KENYON. —      This  is  my  daughter  ! 
HARRIET. — 

Pray,  mother,  do  not  bear  me  every  day: 
252 


I  am  aweary  that  I  was  once  born, 
And  that  at  the  beginning. 

MRS.  KENYON. —      He  loves  you. 

HARRIET. — 

Hook  not  affection  to  his  hollow  heart. 

Besides,  were  he  as  perfect  as  may  be, 

His  love  infinite  as  the  love  of  man, 

Unless  my  heart  unconstrained  had  gone 

With  his  along  I  would  not  be  his  wife. 

I  owe  to  you  my  birth  and  education, 

My  food,  my  clothing  and  my  body's  needs; 

I  'm  bound  for  the  care  you  give  and  love  you  bear; 

But  there  's  a  divinity  greater  than  these, 

And  can  I  halt  with  that  divinity  within  ? 

MRS.  KENYON.— 

Soft !  you  impeach  my  Stephen  through  mere  judg- 
And  not  report?  [ment, 

HARRIET. —  Yes,  mother. 

MRS.  KENYON.—      O  such  a  deed 

As  dulls  the  finer  edge  of  human  respect, 
And  makes  me  give  o'er  faith. 

HARRIET. —  O  hear  me  out. 

MRS.  KENYON. — 

I  will  not  list  one  plea  :  Stephen  's  my  son, 
And  you  have  slandered  and  abused  my  son, 
Slandered  his  honor  and  abused  his  love, 
Slandered  my  honor  and  abused  my  love. 
Stephen  's  my  son  and  you  have  slandered  him ; 
Denied  the  best  young  man  in  all  the  world, 
Who  is  more  dear  to  me  in  his  great  wrong 

253 


Than  he  was  ever  in  a  better  day. 
I  leave  you  and  go  to  him.  [Exit. 

HARRIET. —  'T  is  vain  to  talk. 

Mother  will  never  understand ;  father 
Must  needs  be  grieved  and  cannot  shape  it  else. 
Orphaned  of  spirit  in  nativity 
I  still  must  stand  alone. 

Enter  Maid. 

MAID. — This  for  you,  Miss  Harriet. 

[Gives  Harriet  a  Card. 

HARRIET.-— Show  Mr.  Spencer  here,  Martha. 
MAID. — Yes,  Miss  Harriet.  {Exit. 

HARRIET. — 

What  can  it  mean  ?  he  seeks  to  speak  with  me  ! 

To  say  farewell !  to-morrow  leaves  the  city  ! 

Where  does  he  go?  will  he  not  come  again? 

Farewell,  alas  ! 

Enter  Claudius  and  Maid. 

CLAUDIUS. —  Miss  Kenyon,  pardon  me. 

If  I  intrude  upon  a  private  hour 

I^et  that  I  may  not  see  you  else  be  pardon, 
HARRIET. — Will  you  not  be  seated?          [Exit  Maid. 
Do  you  say  farewell, 

Or  that  more  kind  au  revoir  ? 
CLAUDIUS.—  It  is  farewell. 

A  position  in  the  East  is  tendered  me, 

In  New  York  City,  and,  indeed,  dear  lady, 

I  cannot  choose  but  say  farewell. 
HARRIET. —  Ah,  sir, 

We  lose  you  without  warning. 

254 


CLAUDIUS. —  It  must  be  so  : 

We  find  friends  but  to  lose. 

HARRIET.—  No  ;  that 's  the  cynic, 

And  doubts  the  poet.     He  has  his  calling  and 
His  call,  yet  may  that  name  not  cling  to  you. 
Believe  me,  sir,  mere  distance  never  yet 
Severed  true  friends,  and  are  we  not  twice  bound- 
By  friendship  and  by  letters  ? 

CLAUDIUS. —  Speaking  of  letters, 

I  trust,  dear  lady,  every  year  to  come, 
Or  other  year,  to  read  some  living  work 
By  Harriet  Kenyon. 

HARRIET. —  I,  by  Claudius  Spencer. 

CLAUDIUS. — In  all  my  best,  Miss  Kenyon. 

HARRIET. —  As  I  may. 

CLAUDIUS. — 

Miss  Kenyon,  when  that  I  am  absent  here, 
May  not  we  correspond  ?     I  then  shall  write 
To  one  remembered  not  the  less  by  me 
Than  my  own  kin,  my  friend,  your  fiance, 
And  my  most  dear  friend,  Rodman  Drake. 

HARRIET. —  Mr.  Spencer, 

It  is  untrue  ;  believe  me,  untrue. 

CLAUDIUS. —  Beseech  you  ? 

HARRIET. — Are  you  persuaded  any  bears  to  me 
The  relation  of  betrothed  ? 

CLAUDIUS. —  Why,  Stephen  Burke. 

HARRIET.— 

I  do  not  hold  him  in  the  name  of  friend, 

Nor  have  for  months.     He  knows  my  company 

255 


But  through  respect  to  others.     If  you  have  seen 
Such  import  in  a  journal,  it  is  false ; — 
A  most  grievous  mistake. 

CLAUDIUS. —  Why,  then, 

I  cast  an  ingrate  and  a  coward  off: 
And  that  I  speak  of  this  is  owing  you. 
'T  is  true  I  read  a  journal  to  the  effect ; 
And  but  this  morning  Stephen  Burke  expressed 
That  you  and  he  have  been  betrothed  for  years 
And  are  to  marry  in  the  Spring. 

HARRIET. —  O  fie ! 

When  we  were  children  mother  still  was  fond 

In  this  alliance,  and  I  was  betrothed 

Unto  this  man  ;  but  this  was  long  ago, 

And  has  been  broken  since  I  have  attained 

The  years  of  judgment  which  have  found  in  him 

An  outward  excellence  to  an  inward  corruption. 

Sir,  I  am  not  betrothed  at  all. 

CLAUDIUS. —  Thank  God  ! 

HARRIET. — 

Claudius  Spencer,  if  ever  you  loved  me, 
I  loved  you  not  the  less. 

CLAUDIUS. —  Pardon  me. 

HARRIET. —  Ah,  sir, 

I  am  not  blind ;  I  know  your  noble  mind 
And  pride  that  will  compare  your  state  with  mine 
Unto  farewell :  one  whose  ungrasping  hand 
And  finer  art  may  never  come  to  fortune 
Nor  fortune  come  to  you :  and  rather,  sir, 
Than  mar  the  beauty  of  two  lives  I  thus 
Have  overstept  one  custom. 
256 


CLAUDIUS.—  Forgive  me,  sweet  lady  ; 

I  see  the  world  where  still  I  saw  my  heart. 
This  must  not  be  ;  it  would  but  wrench  you  from 
The  beauty  and  the  comfort  of  dear  wealth 
Unto  necessity  and  unhappiness, 
And  make  your  parents  chide  you  or  debar 
Some  richness  of  their  favor  to  your  pain. 
Farewell. 

HARRIET. —  And  yet  you  love  me  ? 

CLAUDIUS. —  I  should  not. 

HARRIET.— 

0  what  to  me  is  this  unyielding  wealth  ; 
These  needless  riches;  this  base  pageantry ; 
This  light  without,  obscurity  within  ; 
These  fading  pearls  ;  these  jewels  in  my  hair 
That  set  my  forehead  in  the  dust  and  light 
The  way  unto  farewell. 

[She  plucks  off  her  jewels  and  casts  them  down 

There  let  them  rust ! 

1  am  aweary  of  jewels.     I  love  you. 

CLAUDIUS. — 

Then  hence,  false  measure !  I  will  seal  that  bond 
Perpetual  at  the  lips.     O,  gentle  lady, 
There  is  a  glory  to  the  earth  returned  ; 
I  loved  you  ever  from  that  sweetest  night 
When  first  we  met  in  gracious  intercourse  ; 
And  had  my  hopes  proved  baseless  you  had  been 
A  passionate  memory  about  my  ruin, 
Too  dear  to  fade,  too  heavy  to  be  borne. 

257 


HARRIET. — 

Besides,  you  know,  iny  noble  Claudius, 

Since  I  will  play  the  artist,  I  need  have 

Some  scope  of  beauty,  and  your  love  will  plant 

Immortal  possibilities  in  my  heart. 

Yet  fain  I  am  the  woman,  first  and  last, 

Your  loving  wife  who  has  infinite  love 

To  squander  in  your  bosom,  teaching  you 

How  that  a  woman  moved  can  love. 
CLAUDIUS. —  O  we  have  met 

Upon  the  verge  and  the  extreme  of  all 

Never  to  part  again.     O,  Harriet, 

I'll  cherish  every  bramble  in  the  field  ; 

Naught,  naught  so  slight  but  your  sweet  face  will  glow 

A  covenant  between  my  heart  and  it 

Unto  its  lasting  love. 
HARRIET. —  Have  I  not  learned 

She  dies  who  never  loves  ?     Look,  Claudius, 

This  harp,  wreathed  with  a  spray  of  fragrant  orange, 

The  sweetest  buds  that  ever  blew  to  heaven, 

How  happily  prefigures   our  happy  love, 

Long  lasting  as  our  lives. 
CLAUDIUS. —  Undeserving  that  I  am. 

HARRIET. — 

Par,  far  too  worthy  for  unworthy  me  : 

I'm  but  myself. 
CLAUDIUS. —  O,  Harriet  of  Harriets  ; 

Deserving  all  a  lover  sighs  his  love, 

And  poets  win  from  the  infinite  heart. 

Darling,  my  love  is  almost  blasphemy  ; 

258 


You  are  so  pure,  so  sweet,  so  delicate, 

So  radiant  in  your  glow  of  virgin  fire ; 

I  all  a-stain  and  muddied  in  the  world  : 

Yet  trust  me,  sweet,  this  hour  shall  be  a  wing 

Whereby  I  climb  into  a  clearer  air 

Never  to  be  sullied  more. 
HARRIET.—  O  know  your  Love, 

Who  knows  you're  honorable  as  grace  is  wide, 

And  wide  as  her  allegiance. 
CLAUDIUS. —  My  dear  heart, 

In  this  uncorrupted  glass  you  hold  to  me 

My  disproportion  shows  great  indeed,  and  I, 

For  your  sweet  sake,  would  be  that  fair  proportion 

For  which  I  strive.     I  shall  not  say  farewell, 

It  were  a  waste  of  sorrow. 
HARRIET.—  O  be  it  so : 

And  where  you  are  I  am  beside  you  still, 

Thridding  the  eye  of  dark  and  crooked  death. 
Enter  Maid. 

But  look  where  comes  my  maid.    What  do  you  bring  ? 
MAID. — A  message,  Miss  Harriet :    the  messenger,  a 
little  girl,  waits  to  be  answered.      [Gives  Harriet  a  paper. 

HARRIET. — 'Tis  very  strange    what  is  written  here. 
Where  is  this  child? 

MAID. — I  seated  her  in  the  hall,  Miss  Harriet.     Shall 
I  dismiss  her  ? 

HARRIET. — No  :  go  before  :     I  will  come  to  her. 

[Exit  Maid. 
CLAUDIUS. — I  trust  you  have  received  no  ill  news. 

259 


HARRIET. — 'Tis  strange,  'tis  strange,  'tis  very 
strange  ;  yet  I  am  persuaded  to  respect  it  to  our  instant 
parting. 

Dear  Claudius,  when  evening  folds  the  leaf, 
I  pray  you  come  again,  and  I  will  make 
Music  for  my  betrothed,  whose  gladness  is 
A  twice  told  tale. 
CLAUDIUS. —        Sweet  Harriet,  I  will  come.  {Exeunt. 

Scene  j. — A  hill  overlooking  the  Golden  Gate. 

Enter  Drake  and  Venetia. 

DRAKE. — 

L,et's  pause,  Venetia  ;  this  is  the  top 

And  crowning  climb.     When  June  is  come  again, 

We  follow  in  the  flight  of  yon  clear  sun 

That  still  in  glory  goes  upon  its  dawn, 

Which,  going  'fore  us  still,  will  deep  inlay 

The  liquid  avenue  of  our  bridal  journey 

With  panels  of  bright  gold.     O,  dear  my  love, 

Your  look  is  like  the  West  when  it  is  lit 

By  yon  bright  star,  in  liquid  ecstasy 

L,ow  hung  o'er  the  Golden  Gate,  and  these  sweet  locks 

Have  in  them  that  divinity  to  make 

The  sunset  eloquent  long  lingering  here. 

VENETIA. — 

That  you  are  honest  I  in  part  believe, 

Yet  swear  you  paint  my  beauty  o'er  again. 

Still,  I  am  of  a  nature  that  does  believe 

'T  is  not  what  should  not  be,  and  I'll  believe 

You  paint  me  true  who  should  not  paint  me  false. 

DRAKE. — Doubt  me,  Venetia  ? 

260 


VENETIA.—  I  doubt, — condemn  me 

Yet  understand  me, — I  still  doubt  your  love, 
And  I  will  make  a  plummet  of  pure  doubt 
And  sound  your  heart. 

DRAKE. —  O  sound  my  heart  with  faith, 

That  has  in  it  a  gracious  memory, — 
Which,  pardon  me,  I  mean  not  to  discover  : 
Yon  white  sail  ripened  it.     Do  you  recall 
A  day  upon  these  waters,  when  our  yacht 
Dropped  idle  in  the  warm  still  tide  beneath 
Yon  cliff?  a  day  I  was  a  part  with  and 
An  evening. 

VENETIA. —  Trust  me,  Rodman,  I  recall 

The  very  cliff  that,  jutting  o'er  its  base, 
Wore  rough  hewn  in  its  front  a  human  face  ; 
The  genius  of  the  overhanging  rock, 
And  guardian  of  the  Gate. 

DRAKE. —  This  should  teach  us, 

Before  man  was  his  image  was  a  piece 
Of  nature  and  mortality,  silent  along 
This  seolian  shore  ;  mutely  prophesying 
With  brow  of  stone  lifted  to  parting  day, 
The  coming  of  that  multitudinous  soul 
That  'd  pull  down  lightning  from  the  thunder-rack, 
And,  enamoured  of  the  zenith,  would  leap  upward 
And  suckle  at  her  suns. 

VENETIA.—  O  wonderful ! 

Was  human  face  ne'er  new  beneath  the  sun  ? 
But  this  word  "  faith  "  and  's  gracious  memory. 

DRAKE. — Pardon  me,  Venetia. 

261 


VENETIA. —  Not  for  a  sea  of  grace. 

We  are  such  stuff  as  memory,  and  Rodman 

I  never  may  possess  till  I  possess 

His  memories. 
DRAKE. —  Ay,  tender  me  your  memories. 

Venetia,  let  your  memory  play  the  diver, 

And  from  the  sunny  sea  of  past  events 

Win  me  some  precious  jewel. 
VENETIA.—  O  'tis  but  little 

Which  I  have  asked,  and  when  that  little  's  mine 

Mayhap  I'll  hang  some  jewels  in  your  ear, 

Fond  stones,  which  shall  become  you  passing  well. 
DRAKE.— 

Have  me,  Venetia,  have  my  memories. 

But  come,  that  I  discover  this  to  you 

On  the  sunny  beach  wedded  to  wave  and  shore. 

Sweet  spot,  salt  with  the  West,  't  will  gild  a  tale 

And  make  clear  silence  eloquent  as  love. 

Spirit  of  memory,  come 

And  walk  beside  us  down  unto  the  sea.        [Exeunt. 

Scene  4. — A  room. 
Rose  (on  a  bed)  and  Nurse  discovered. 

NURSE. — Hush  !  when  the  lady  comes — lay  back  once 

more — 

I  '11  turn  you  to  her  face.     Hush  !  do  not  speak. 
(Aside)  Poor  thing,  what  can  it  be  hangs  on  her  soul 
And  stays  its  flight  ?     The  lady  will  not  come; 
Great  ladies  do  not  look  on  stricken  things. 
Hush,  hush  ! 

ROSE. —  O  lift  me  up:  the  stairs,  the  stairs. 

262 


NURSK. — Hush  !  'tis  not  time. 
ROSE.—  O  lift  me  up  :  the  door ; 

I  see  her  there. 

Enter  Child,  Edmund  and  Harriet  (veiled). 

NURSE). —  Kind  lady,  have  you  come  ? 

I  am  the  nurse.     She  wears  her  heart  quite  out. 
ROSE. — O  come  more  near. 

HARRIET. —  What  would  you  say  to  me? 

ROSE. — 

Is  this  the  lady?     Let  me  see  your  face. 

I  know  her  face. 
HARRIET. — {Lifting  her  veil.}  Yes,  strangely,  lam  she. 

Why  do  you  send  for  me?  I  know  you  not: 

And  yet  I  listen.     Can  you  speak  right  on  ? 

ROSE.— 

0  let  us  be  alone;  I  dare  not  speak 
With  any  by. 

HARRIET. —  She  begs  you  both  retire. 

1  pray  you  pass  into  the  other  room ; 
But  leave  the  door  unclosed. 

NURSE.—  She  's  part  delirious, 

I  think,  my  lady;  and  I  nurse  her  not 
For  any  price,  for  she  has  naught  on  earth 
But  cureless  troubles. 

HARRIET. —  She  motions  you  away. 

NURSE. — 

And,  lady,  her  father  eaten  of  a  cancer 
About  the  heart,  and  cannot  buy  her  medicine. 
You  see,  'tis  a  pitiful  case. 

263 


EDMUND. —  I  like  not  that : 

But  I  must  be  content.     {Edmund  and  Nurse  retire.} 

HARRIET. —  You  may  speak  now. 

What  is't  you  have  to  say  ?     Yes,  speak  right  on. 

ROSE. — 

O,  lady,  I  am  dying — cannot  live 

To  see  again  my  little  babe  that  's  dead  : 

I'm  dying,  and  forgive  him  who  made  me 

This  ruin  you  look  on  from  a  happy  girl 

That  loved  and  knew  not  what  it  was  to  doubt 

Until  he  turned  me  out  into  the  streets — 

And  I  was  deathly  sick,  and  my  father  found  me, 

And  knew  not  face  from  face,  for  all  was  dark : — 

For  I  was  not  his  lawful  wife,  but  Oh  ! 

When  my  poor  babe  was  born  if  I  had  had 

A  little  comfort  'twould  be  at  my  breast  ; 

But  the  father  laughed  at  me. 

HARRIET.—  Alas,  alas  ! 

ROSE. — 

O,  lady,  I  am  low-laid  in  my  grave, 
But  I  forgive  him  all  the  wrong  he  did. 
O  save  him  !  tell  him  to  rise  up  and  flee  ; 
Let  not  my  father  take  his  life.     O  speak  ! 

HARRIET.— 

Rest  now  a  while  and  when  you  can  speak  on 
Tell  me  who  'tis  has  wronged  you  thus.     O  rest ! 

ROSE. — 

O,  kind,  kind  lady,  when  my  father  learned 
He  was  to  marry  you, — O  please  stoop  down  ! — 
To  kill  him,  and  before  my  God  he  will 
Unless  you  warn  him.     I  am  dying  now  : 
264 


0  when  I  looked  upon  my  dead  babe's  face 

1  could  not  hate  him  more. 
HARRIET. —  O  speak  his  name  ! 

ROSE.  — 

L,ook  !  I  have  worn  it  ever  since  that  day 

He  promised  to  marry  me.     You  do  not  look  : 

It  is  his  ring. 
HARRIET. —  O  me,  I  gave  it  him, 

And  he  did  lose  't.     His  name  is  Stephen  Burke  ? 

O  speak  ! 
ROSE. —  Stephen  Burke!  Stephen!  Stephen! 

O  save  me  !  O  I  die  !  [Falls  back. 

HARRIET. —  You  heavens  look  down, 

And  pluck  some  fleeting  comfort  to  her  heart, 

Poor  wretched  piece  of  marred  humanity. 

O  shame,  shame  on  the  difference  of  debt 

Making  the  innocent  bear  all !  O,  God  ! 

Shall  women  suffer  this  ?     The  dead  are  living, 

The  living  are  dead  ! 

[Re-enter  Edmund  and  Nurse. 

See,  see,  O  see ! 
ROSE. — {Arising  on  the  bed)     I  die,  I  die  ! 

0  my  mother  !  wife  !  God  !  [Dies. 
EDMUND.—                'Tis  good  you  go  now. 
NURSE. — 'Tis  just  as  I  expected ;  she  is  gone. 
HARRIET. — 

Yes,  she  is  dead.     I  pray  you  go  before; 

1  'd  be  alone  with  her  a  little  while. 

EDMUND.— We  '11  wait  upon  you  in  the  entry  way. 

[Exeunt  Edmund  and  Nurse. 

265 


HARRIET. — 

O  now  I  look  on  death  !     'Tis  this  to  die ! 
O  God,  is  't  this  to  live  ?    Then  death  is  best ! 
No,  no,  no,  no,  I  '11  not  believe  it  is, 
Doubting  the  mortal  avouch.     Poor  testimony 
That  justice  is  a  dream,  may  perfect  rest 
Raze  out  what 's  written  too  harshly  on  your  brow  : 
May  it  write  other  matter  in  that  book 
Such  as  a  father  might  find  comfort  in. 
Why  am  I  here  ? 

Ah,  disdeluding  truth,  you  have  marred  all ! 
No,  I  '11  not  warn  that  ruffian  Stephen  Burke 
Against  the  father's  hand;  but  rather  may 
The  redounding  vengeance  strike  ere  words  can  spring. 
This  has  he  done,  and  may  he  follow  his  works. 
For  this  polluted  ring  fallen  from  her  hand, 
The  sea  shall  hide  it  ere  the  night  is  come 
And  hide  no  deeper  shame.     Farewell,  O  farewell, 
Your  age  was  on  earth,  may  your  youth  in  heaven 
dwell.  {Exit. 

Scene  5. — A  club  room. 
Enter  Todd  and  Two  Poets. 

FIRST  PoKT. — Come,  come,  Spencer  keeps  no  appoint- 
ment here. 

TODD. — Gentlemen,  if  I  wrong  you  may  I  make  a 
bottle  of  a  wrong.  The  excellent  Claudius  was  to  meet 
me  here  an  half  hour  since,  and,  though  he  comes  not, 
yet  have  patience.  In  the  interim  I'll  discover  an  Alp 
of  policy  in  my  eye  of  State  and  prove  myself  the  father 
of  an  illustrious  line  of  American  poets  and  prologue  to 

266 


the  palmy  day  of  arts.  Look  you,  I  am  tendered  by  the 
Administration — God  save  the  colonels  ! — an  office  i'  the 
municipality,  and  thereby  hangs  appointments. 

SECOND  POET. — God  help  the  office!  the  ballot  forbid  ! 

TODD. — Go  to,  this  was  no  ballot,  this  was  an  appoint- 
ment per  se. 

FiRvST  POET. — No  :  and  if  it  had  been,  it  had  been  a 
ballot  o'  tears.  Well,  you  can  now  keep  a  coach  and  six 
with  a  poet  for  tiger  ;  the  first  gentleman  of  America. 

TODD. — Friends,  a  man's  opinions  should  be  his  ap- 
pointments that  his  principles  survive,  since  there  are 
honorable  men  in  all  opinions  and  parties. 

FIRST  POET. — Ay,  there  's  the  salt  of  it. 

SECOND  POET. — True,  the  devil  hath  opinion. 

TODD. — O,  my  sweet  friends,  to-day  the  devil  is  not 
even  painted.  Hark  ye,  gentlemen,  at  each  ear — *  'pulls" 
are  short  and  life  is  long. 

FIRST  POET. — Excellent,  i'  faith. 

SECOND  POET. — Good,  good  :  the  tune  the  old  poli- 
tician died  on. 

TODD. — Gentlemen,  were  I  a  Republican,  a  Democrat, 
a  Populist  o'  the  Socialistic  Party,  or  one  of  these  who 
builds  his  hopes  on  almighty  returns,  I  were  not  with 
you  this  afternoon  ;  were  I  a  party  man  I  were  about  my 
party's  business.  No,  sweet  friends,  I  am  a  poet,  a 
minstrel  who  was  wont  to  harp  his  harp  in  heaven's  eye, 
and  poets  shall  be  my  appointees. 

SECOND  POET. — The  poet  in  politics :  well. 

TODD. — Look  you,  here  is  the  list  of  the  seven  first 
poets — this  is  not  grammar,  friends,  but  human  nature — 

267 


thought  most  deserving  to  act  as  my  deputies.  Shall  I 
appoint  these  ?  have  you  better  ?  do  you  assent  ? 

FIRST  POET. — Come,  the  list.  (Reads)  Roger  Cam- 
bridge, Cashier.  I  know  him,  Philip;  a  white-haired 
elderly  gentleman,  hale  and  hearty,  looking  forward  to 
when  he  shall  be  a  boy  again. 

SECOND  POET. — Honor  him;  he  is  a  high  priest  of 
God's  English. 

FIRST  POET. — (Reads)  Robert  Queerquill,  Clerk.  Alas! 
poor  fellow,  he  has  learned  a  bad  name  is  the  only  thing 
that  can  be  in  two  places  at  the  same  time. 

TODD. — Except  a  good  name,  and  an  illustrious  name, 
like  mine.  He  wrote  that  rare  epitaph  for  the  sot  when 
he  ran  a  church  in  Calaveras.  Soft !  let  me  see,  let  me 
see, — He  is  dead,  pity  him  not — yes — 

He  is  dead  ; 
Pity  him  not ; 
Death  can  long  be  borne. 

He  is  dead ; 
L,et  him  rot ; 
Stranger,  do  not  mourn  : 
He  's  doing  his  duty  now 
Is  this  sot, 
God  wot ; 

And  the  whole  duty  of  a  dead  man 
Is  to  rot. 

Ha !  I  wish  I  had  written  that. 
SECOND  POET. — Honor  him. 

TODD. — He  cannot  be  a  bad  man  at  heart ;  he  loves  a 
Welsh  rarebit.  But,  gentlemen,  I  have  reserved  the 

268 


worthiest  place  for  Spencer  and  trust  he  will  honor  me 
with  an  acceptance,  and,  while  you  study  this  milky  way 
of  poets,  I  will  pace  softly  towards  his  home  and  bring 
him  on  his  way.  The  spirit  moves  me. 

FIRST  POET. — We  stay  his  pleasure.  [Exit  Todd. 

Come  to  the  sideboard  and  toast  him  to  the  very  toast ; 
the  Poet  loyal.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  6. — Parlors  in  Kenyon's  house. 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan  and  Burke. 

BURKE. — 

Madam,  the  mind  that  made  your  daughter  great 
Will  surely  keep  her  true. 

MRS.  KEN  YON. —      Stephen,  my  son, — 
For,  sir,  you  are  my  son,  being  so  like 
Him  that  is  dead, — yet  to  a  mother's  heart 
Her  child  is  never  dead  :  and  I  have  learned 
Not  to  forget  but  to  remember  with 
A  tempered  heart :  being  so  like,  I  say, 
Him  that  is  dead  ;  and  since  our  nature  leaps 
To  grapple  to  our  heart  that  issue  which 
Has  attribute  and  part  with  some  dear  loss, 
I  call  you  son.     And  once  more,  yet  once  more  - 
I  call  you  son,  in  that  from  childhood  forth, 
Even  to  the  transformation  of  Harriet, 
My  daughter  was  betrothed  so  unto  you 
That  when  her  father  looked  upon  your  loves 
And  saw  your  budding  future,  he  would  cry 
It  made  contemplation  young  in  thrall 
Of  elder  winter :  and  take  comfort,  sir, 
When  Harriet  looks  upon  our  grief  awhile 
She'll  look  upon  her  duty. 
269 


BURKE. —  Herein  you  cheer 

The  heaviest  hour  that  I  have  ever  known. 
Quietness,  yet  without  peace  ;  ease,  without  rest  ; 
Wealth,  without  beauty;  affection,  without  hope  ; 
Rank,  without  love  ;  truth,  without  inspiration  ; 
This,  madam,  is  the  charm  which  keeps  back  death, 
For  ever  death  abhors  the  miserable. 
Nor  night  has  set  division  '  tween  my  days, 
Nor  day  between  my  nights  ;  believe  me,  still 
The  nights  are  troubled  with  the  troubled  days, 
The  days  are  troubled  with  the  troubled  nights. 
Yet  from  your  counsel  and  your  shrewd  insight 
I  pluck  some  hope,  and  hope  's  a  kind  of  work 
Unto  my  saving. 

MRS.  KEN  YON. —     Then  be  resolved  :  in  thought 
There's  a  divinity  that  sways  the  minds 
Of  those  we  come  in  touch  with  to  our  likes 
And  our  dislikes  ;  and,  as  the  running  tide 
Bears  in  its  current  all  that  comes  in  touch 
Which  does  not  overpeer  its  strength  of  flood, 
So  our  belief  sweeps  on  another's  heart 
And  bears  it  in  its  current  to  our  ends 
A  thousand  times  repeated. 

BURKE. —  I  in  part  believe 

That  I  again  shall  win  your  daughter's  hand; 
Nor  doubt  shall  keep  the  watches  of  the  night, 
Nor  be  a  sentinel  o'er  my  inner  heart 
That  it  may  never  pass  into  the  light 
Without  a  challenge. 

270 


MRS.  KENYON. —     'Tis  well,  'tis  very  well, 
Exceeding  well ;  and  cast  it  out  at  once — 
The  commune  of  the  heart  unto  itself 
Is  half  our  destiny. 

BURKE. —  Though  love,  unrequited, 

Has  ceased  to  be  an  inspiration  and 
Has  become  a  curse,  I  yet  will  not  despair. 

MRS.  KKNYON. — 

And  I  have  one  more  comfort :  in  idleness 

The  mind  begets  strange  brood,  which  few  will  own 

At  later  time,  and  Harriet  is  idle, 

Or  has  been  idle,  and  'tis  this  that  gives 

Denial  and  crooked  motion ;  but  henceforth 

Idle  she  shall  not  be,  and  this  unthreads 

These  heavy  times. 

BURKE. —  Now  truth  's  a  precious  jewel 

That  fable  gave  to  fact,  since  with  the  truth 
Your  daughter  will  return  into  the  light: 
And  I,  whom  you  call  son,  out  of  dear  love 
Fain  call  you  mother  :  one  who  has  no  kin; 
Yet  in  my  wife  the  dusty  vault  shall  gape 
And  give  me  back  my  dead. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hart  land  and  Kenyan. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —      Husband,  Albertine, 

Let 's  wrestle  pleasure  from  the  forward  instant, 
Pull  down  our  daughters  from  their  studious  star, 
Unroof  these  thrice-walled  students  that  they  tread 
A  measure  in  the  circle  of  delights. 
They  hang  like  mirrors  reflecting  all  they  front, 
Enjoying  naught. 

271 


MRS.  HARTLAND. — Harriet  is  returned. 
She  will  be  here  anon. 

Enter  Idilia. 

Idilia  comes. 

KENYON. — She  looks  unwell:  I  think  it  good  she  travel. 

IDILIA. — Who  cries  out  " travel"  to  a  soul  at  peace? 

KKNYON. — 

You  've  put  the  day  to  the  decision,  niece. 
Hence,  you  shall  travel  and  o'er  Harriet 
Commission  have  to  make  her  such  a  mate 
As  broke  from  your  society  this  hour 
And  took  my  heart  with  envy. 

IDILIA.—  That  's  the  universities, 

Whither  young  men  and  women  flock  to  drink 
The  milk  of  arts  and  eat  Promethean  fire, 
And  over  and  beyond  the  intellect 
Instruct  the  body  in  all  the  throws  and  kicks 
That  find  it  true  and  leave  it  benefited. 

Enter  Harriet. 

KKNYON. — Daughter,  will  you  not  play  for  us  some 
favorite  and  brighter  composition  ? 

BURKE. — {Approaching  with  music)  Miss  Kenyon,  the 
privilege  of  this  song  in  accompaniment. 

[  Harriet  regards  him  with  scorn: 
hesitates:  quits  the  room. 

She  is  unwell.     Sir,  I  will  take  my  leave. 

I  deeply  tender  her  apology: 

Bespeak  me  thus.  {Exit. 

272 


IDIUA. —  O,  believe  me,  she  is  not  well: 

I  say  to  you  she  said  she  was  not  well. 

How  pale  she  is.  {.Exit. 

KKNYON.—  Sickness  that  stoops  so  low 

lyies  deep.  [Exit. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —  Ah  me  !  sister,  what  shall  I  do? 

I  had  a  daughter;  have  I  buried  her  ? 

Search  out  her  grave  that  I  may  weep  there. 

O  come  away:  all  's  lost  but  motherhood.    [Exeunt. 

Scene  7. — A  street. 
Enter  Claudius  and  Drake :  Curtis  at  a  distance. 

CLAUDIUS. — 

Stay,  Rodman,  look  where  Curtis  is  addressed  : 
He  shall  with  us  along  to  Dugal  Todd, 
That  sleek-headed,  affable,  and  portly  man 
Who  distinguishes  literature  from  a  handsaw. 
Why  he  has  summoned  me,  I  take  no  thought  ; 
Suffice  I  am  denial-dumb  to-day. 
Question  me  not ;  I  rather  show  my  heart 
Than  speak  what  language  it  has  fed  upon. 
DRAKE. — Give  me  your  hand,  Claudius,  brother.      I 
trust  it  is  even  so  with  you  as  it  is  with  me.     What ! 
have  I  moved  you  ?     Nay,  leave  off  wringing  my  hand 
that  I  wring  yours,  since  I  am  indeed  your  brother,  hav- 
ing won  your  sweet  sister,  Venetia. 

ClyAUDIUS. — 

You  wrap  my  thoughts  up  in  a  deeper  maze. 
O  be  it  so. 
DRAKE. —  Heartily,  heartily. 

273 


CLAUDIUS. —  Venetia  ! 

0  I  can  lend  the  fondest  lover  art 

To  praise  Venetia  ;  but  that  's  your  pleasure, 

And  I'll  mark  you  straight?     Then  must  you  speak 

of  one 

Who  has  more  heart  than  art,  not  that  her  art  is  less 
But  that  her  heart  is  more. 
CURTIS. —  Spencer,  farewell : 

Public  report  bespeaks  you  quit  the  West. 

1  take  the  personal  way  to  say  farewell. 
New  York,  I  think. 

CLAUDIUS. —  So  once  I  thought  myself ; 

But  new  occasions  old  affections  warp. 
A  farewell  not  to  purpose  ;  I'm  not  hence 
Upon  so  instant  note  :  delayed  or  over-ruled. 
Come,  go  with  us  and  waste  a  merry  hour. 
A  Funeral  Train  approaches. 

CURTIS. — 

Forbear  :  let's  pause  the  passing  of  this  train 
That  draws  apace. 

DRAKE. —  Within  the  forward  hour, 

Yon  hearse  will  rattle  o'er  the  stony  street 
In  harsh  return,  and  he  that  sleeps  within, 
Deaf  to  all  languages  beneath  the  sun 
That  not  the  motion  of  the  linguist's  tongue 
Can  stir  one  jot,  inclines  toward  the  worm 
In  dank  oblivion. 

CLAUDIUS. —  May  I  be  cremated ! 

Why  should  a  man  thus  lay  him  down  and  rot ; 
To  be  the  food  of  vermin  and  a  comb 
For  thridding  worms:  this  express  tenement 
274 


And  form  of  alabaster  to  fall  into 

A  loathsome  mound :  this  top  and  arch  of  thought, 

The  soul's  high  crescent,  to  be  pulled  quite  down 

And  dragged  into  the  mire  of  decay, 

That  not  the  rudest  mind  can  glance  his  end 

Nor  smother  up  the  heart :  this  tabernacle 

Of  largeness  and  of  pride  to  be  up-dug, 

And  oft  our  nature's  frame  be  jarred  about 

With  no  more  concern  than  the  very  beast's. 

0  fie  !  my  I  respect  myself  in  death, 
And  from  my  derogate  ashes  never  spring 
An  insult  to  the  spirit. 

CURTIS. —  This  was  a  man 

Who  was  a  study  and  a  mystery. 
I/iving,  he  thought  to  communicate  with  the  dead, 
And  climb  into  another  atmosphere, 
Leaving  all  untenanted  the  natural  frame 
Of  any  reasonable  and  conscious  soul. 
Which  life  speaks  for  a  mounting  spirit  and 
A  peep  beyond  philosophy  and  art. 

CLAUDIUS. — 

Why  cannot  man  commune  with  the  departed — 
Leap  o'er  his  grosser  nature,  spirit- thwarted, 
O'erpeer  the  level  of  this  wholesome  air, 
And,  in  some  world  to  which  the  dead  are  heir, 
Hold  commune,  clipt  about  by  golden  fire, 
With  souls  whom  here  from  earth  did  late  aspire. 

Enter  Burke. 
BURKE. — 

1  '11  accompany  you  and  stuff  the  hollow  hour 
To  some  true  shape. 

275 


Enter  Livingstone  and  Todd. 

LIVINGSTONE.—       Turn,  Stephen  Burke,  turn 
And  look  on  death  ! 

[He  draws  a  pistol  on  Burke.     Todd  grapples 
with  him  :  the  pistol  explodes :  Claudius  falls. 

CLAUDIUS. —  O,  pluck  it  out,  pluck  it  out ! 

DRAKE. — 

For  God's  sake  grapple  with  him  ;  he  is  mad. 

Take 'way  that  pistol.     Help  me,  friends  :  look  here, 

Spencer  is  shot ! 
TODD. —  I  have  him,  gentlemen. 

Budge  now,  you  scoundrel,  and  let  Hell  hold  's  peace, 

I'll  not ! 
CURTIS. —          Quick,  some  one  bring  a  surgeon  here; 

Spencer  is  shot. 
DRAKE. —  Look  up  :  where  is  it,  Claude  ? 

What  man,  no  blood  ?  then  never  think  it :  courage, 

We'll  help  you  straight. 
CLAUDIUS. —  O,  I  die,  I  die,  Rodman. 

Justice !  [Dies. 

DRAKE. —  Before  my  God,  Spencer  is  killed. 

Brother,  look  up  :  it  cannot  work  so  fast. 

Where  are  you  shot  ?  ha  !  in  the  temple  :  aye. 

I  say  he  's  killed  ;  are  you  all  deaf? 
TODD. —  Tut,  man, 

No  more  than  reason. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Come,  sir,  here  is  the  man. 
He  's  but  a  rag. 

276 


OFFICER— Hold  back  his  hands. 

[Manacles  Livingstone.     A  crowd  gathers. 

Enter  three  Officers. 

Call  a  patrol  to  the  station.  [Exit  an  Officer. 

Look  to  the  man  there.     What,  dead  ? 
CURTIS. — I  think  so. 

DRAKE). —  Ay,  shot  in  the  temple  :  look. 

Come,  help  me,  friend  :  Curtis,  go  bring  a  coach. 

[Exit  Curtis. 

Before  my  God,  I  cannot  think  him  dead  ; 
It  is  too  sudden  for  the  soul  of  man. 
Why  in  God's  name  came  you  before  him,  Burke  ? 
Would  I  were  dabbled  here. 
BURKE. —  Tush,  he  is  mad. 

I  know  him  not. 

TODD. —  He  's  killed  a  better  man. 

OFFICER. — Who  witnessed  this  shooting?    Mr.  Burke? 
Mr.  Todd  ?  (  To  Drake}  this  gentleman  here  ?    Answer  all 
who  witnessed. 
BURKE. — I. 
TODD.— And  I. 
DRAKE. — And  I. 

Re-enter  Curtis,  with  coach. 
And  he,  Curtis. 
OFFICER. — Who  else  ? 

BURKE. — This  is  all :  the  streets  were  empty. 
DRAKE. — Make  way  there,  let  us  pass;  I  '11  take  him 
home.     Help,  Curtis,  help  to  lift  him  in  the  coach. 

OFFICER. — (71?  an  Officer)  Mount  the  coach,  and  make 

your  report.  [Claudius  is  lifted  into  the  coach:  Drake  and 

Curtis  enter:  an  Officer  mounts  the  coach: 
the  coach  is  driven  off. 

277 


OFFICER. — (  To  an  Officer} 

Here  on  this  side ;  we  '11  lead  him  to  the  station. 

Gentlemen,  you  shall  be  summoned. 
BURKK. —  Go  on  before. 

I  think  he  's  a  lunatic,  so  have  a  care. 
TODD.— 

On  to  the  tanks,  McPherson;  we  '11  follow  after. 

He  '11  answer  for  it;  while  there 's  rope  there 's  reason. 
OFFICER. — Back,  back,  back  ! 

[Exeunt  Officers  with  Livingstone:  crowd  follow. 

TODD. — 

I  tell  you,  Burke,  that  man  is  stricken  dumb 

That  did  the  shooting. 

BURKE.—  Do  you  believe  so?  ha  ! 

TODD.— 

Very  like,  very  like  ;  but  froth  will  answer  you. 

Well,  let  it  go;  the  law  's  the  criminal's  best  friend. 

Enter  Burrill. 

BURRIU,. — What 's  that  forward,  Mr.  Todd, — an  arrest? 
BURKE. — Are  you  a  reporter  ? 

TODD. — Ay,  to  his  faults.     One  I  brought  up  from  a 
boy  ;  a  politician  should  see  to  these  things. 
BURKE. — Come,  go  with  us,  we  witnessed  this. 
TODD. — Now,  Burrill,  every  man  for  himself  and  truth 
take  the  hindmost.     Come,  sir,  no  lies,  no  lies  ;  he  was 
my  friend — and  I  was  unworthy  him. 

Whaur  's  Claudie  Spencer  noo?     Before  my  God, 
Though  I  live  out  the  six-score  years  of  man, 
I  shall  not  see  so  piteous  fall  again. 
Come  softly  on.  {Exeunt. 

278 


Scene  8. — A  room  in  Kenyon's  house. 

Enter  Harriet. 
HARRIET. — 

O,  you  just  heavens,  have  I  wrought  honorable 

In  keeping  silent  that  this  Stephen  Burke 

Have  judgment  meted  him?     O  compass  me, 

You  that  my  steps  thus  far  have  led  aright, 

And  direct  me  still. 

O  what  a  piteous  unhappy  ruin  was  there 

When  this  most  trusting  woman  was  betrayed  ! 

And  shall  that  faithless  ruffian  live  on 

To  blast  the  weak,  and  not  one  make  redress  ? 

He  did  these  things — and  do  I  know  he  did  ? 

How  do  I  know  but  she  has  spoken  false, 

Or  she  was  but  an  animal,  a  beast  ? 

How  do  I  know  which  is  the  guilty  one 

That  I  should  seal  my  lips  till  vengeance  strike  ? 

Mercy  !  I  know  not  what  it  is  I  do  : 

I'll  make  myself  a  guilty  instrument 

To  a  guilty  deed  :  and  one  may  blab  these  things, 

And  through  my  silence  drag  my  father  down 

And  my  poor  mother  ;  bruise  my  Claudius  ; 

And  turn  my  life  to  outward  hideousness. 

O  now  I  see  all  silence  here  is  foul  : 

Then  up,  give  warning,  and,  if  no  evil  fall, 

Let  this  delay  strike  at  my  single  self, 

And  I'll  pluck  its  sharpest  thorn  unto  my  heart 

And  suffer  wisely  what  I  unwisely  wrought.  {Exit. 


279 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  i. — A  room  in  Spencer's  house. 
Enter  Spencer  and  Venetia. 

VENETIA. — O,  dear  my  father,  is  your  sight  restored? 

SPENCER. — 

Ay,  even  as  the  coming  on  of  day 

After  thick  night ;  at  first  the  grey  approach, 

And  then  the  sliver-laced  breaking,  then  clear  dawn, 

And  last  the  bright  consummate  noon. 

VENETIA. —  O  heavenly  powers  ! 

SPENCER. — 

I  see  you  with  embraces,  yet  in  form 
As  clear  and  level  as  the  general  eye. 

VENETIA. — 

Look,  sir,  where  John  is  walking  in  the  garden: 
I  '11  call  him  hither;  you  will  know  his  face, 
Though  mine  but  feelingly,  for  I  have  grown 
Quite  from  that  earlier  image  which  was  wont 
To  fill  your  eye.  [Exit. 

SPENCER. —  She  has  the  mother's  brow, 

The  self-same  brow  that  I  resigned  to  Death 
When  I  was  dragged  beneath  the  wheels  of  dust; 
And  I  am  as  new  risen  from  the  dead 
And  look  upon  the  mother  with  the  Blest. 
Heaven  has  heard  my  prayer,  and  chiefly  Him 
Whose  sorrow  was  the  gladness  of  the  world, 
Who  is  my  Captain,  and  whose  faith  has  been 
The  only  manna  in  the  wilderness. 
280 


Re-enter  Venetia  with  John. 

JOHN. — Brother  Paul,  can  you  see  me? 
SPKNCKR. — 

Are  you  near  or  far?     But  let  me  touch  your  face, 

That  I  may  feel  'tis  not  a  stranger  :  so. 

It  is  my  brother,  and  our  hair  is  white. 
JOHN. — 

Sweet  niece,  your  father  has  regained  his  sight. 

My  hair  is  white. 
VKNKTIA. —  O,  it  were  brave  indeed 

Were  Claudius  here.     Yet  I  may  search  him  out. 

[Exit. 
SPKNCKR. — My  cot  is  simple  but  my  age  is  free. 

Enter  a  Maid. 

MAID. — O,  sir,  here  's  a  gentleman  to  speak  with  you. 

\JSxit. 

Enter  Drake. 
DRAKK.— 

Pardon  me,  sir,  I  have  brought  Claudius  home 

For  he  is  hurt. 

SPKNCKR. —  My  son  is  hurt? 

DRAKK. — O  grievously  hurt. 
JOHN. —  Alas  !  where  is  he  ? 

DRAKK. — Hush  !  he  may  die. 
SPKNCKR. —  My  son  may  die? 

Bring  me  to  him. 

DRAKK. —  Sir,  he  is  dying. 

SPKNCKR. — Dying ! 
DRAKK.—  O  think  of  Venetia, 

And  hide  your  grief. 
SPKNCKR. —  He 's  dead. 

281 


DRAKE. —  Even  so. 

I  may  go  now.     I  pray  you,  look  to  him; 

We  '11  bring  him  here.  [Exit. 

SPENCER. —  He  tells  me  my  son  is  dead: 

He  tells  me  my  son  Claudius  is  dead: 

Make  way,  I  '11  go  unto  him  ;  I  can  see. 

Re-enter  Drake  with  Curtis  and  an  Officer  bearing  Claudius. 

DRAKE. — 

Hush  !  he  is  dead.     He  died  by  "accident, 
And  never  better  fell.     We  were  with  him, 
My  friend  and  I,  conversing  in  the  street 
On  many  things,  and  sir,  when  Claudius  fell 
It  touched  us  near. 

JOHN.—  Brother,  hear  this  young  man, 

You  have  yet  one  sweet  branch  to  droop  with  you. 
How  did  he  die  ?  by  accident,  you  say  ? 
I'd  tell  him  all. 

DRAKE. —  Sir,  even  thus  it  was : 

Claudius,  my  friend,  and  I  stood  in  the  street 
Conversing,  when  to  us  came  up  a  friend, 
A  friend  to  us  all,  who  was  no  sooner  by 
But  from  behind  a  madman  shot  at  him 
And  killed  your  son.     This  man  is  held  for  compt. 
Our  tale  is  brief,  our  loss  is  without  end ; 
Yet  may  't  remember  the  living. 

SPENCER. —  He  is  dead ! 

O,  Claudius,  my  son,  my  son  Claudius, 
I  builded  heaven' s  glory  on  stairs  of  sand ! 
O  God,  here  was  a  son  born  for  the  race 
His  father 's  still  prophetic  heart  would  run ; 
282. 


He  had  the  mind  and  the  compulsive  fires 

To  shape  the  heart  into  the  living  truth 

That  this  recorded  and  peculiar  dust 

Go  upright  in   its  passage ;   but  fleeting,  crooked 

mischance 

Has  reaved  the  light  of  him  and  him  of  light. 
He  was  the  very  purpose  of  my  age, 
And  he  is  dead  !  {Exit, 

DRAKE.—  Beseech  you,  look  to  him; 

He  treads  the  verge :  and  let  his  woe  not  reach 
Your  gentle  niece.  {Exit  John. 

Let  's  bear  him  thither,  friends: 
Yon  room  is  not  so  open  to  the  hall, 
And  leads  where  uninterrupted  we  may  speak. 
The  sister  must  be  told,  and  to  that  end 
I'll  call  a  lady  from  the  neighbor-way : 
'Tis  fit  a  woman  tread  these  steps  with  her. 
Once  more  take  up  the  body. 

'{Exeunt,  bearing  off  Claudius. 

Scene  2. — A  room  in  Kenyon's  house. 
Enter  Harriet. 

HARRIET. — 

'Tis  five  o'clock;  he  has  my  warning  now; 
And  for  my  own  pride  and  his  dear  release 
He  knows  not  who  has  warned  him  of  this  man, — 
Only  that  he  is  warned  and  has  a  care. 
But  O,  my  fearful  heart,  in  the  interim 
From  four  to  five  o'clock  what  accident 
May  have  befallen  his  untutored  steps, 
Which  might  not  be  had  I  disarmed  the  father. 
283 


Laughter  has  been  a  knell  unto  my  soul. 

[  The  clock  strikes  five. 
Hark  !  that  strikes  from  heaven  ;  he  is  warned. 

Enter  Idilia. 

Idilia,  is  't  you? 
IDIUA.  —  O,  Harriet,  sweet  cousin, 

Why  are  you  strange  and  undivulged  of  heart  ; 

A  walking  mystery  ?     I  will  kiss  you  for  it. 
HARRIET.  —  I  pray  you,  touch  me  not. 
IDIUA.  —  Where  have  you  been 

This  heavy  hour? 
HARRIET.  —  An  hour  is  very  brief  : 

'Tis  scarce  an  inch  upon  yon  ancient  piece 

That  strikes  the  fearful  moments.     In  so  brief  span 

Naught  of  great  import  could  take  place,  think  you  ? 


Cousin,  I  think  —  and  this  that  you  are  strange  — 
To-day  is  not  the  morrow  of  yesterday 
But  quite  apart. 

HARRIET.  —  It  is  a  day,  Idilia, 

Without  a  morrow  or  a  yesterday. 
Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan. 

IDIUA.  —  Dear  aunt,  what  are  your  thoughts  ? 
MRS.  KENYON.  —      I  think  strange  thoughts 

Whilst  you  on  old  affections  dwell. 
HARRIET.  —  O,  my  mother, 

Why  do  you  look  so  moved  upon  me  ?  speak  ! 

And  talk  so  strange  ?   Has  aught  befallen  ?    O  speak  ! 
MRS.  KENYON.  —  They  have  not  told  you  —  no? 
HARRIET.  —  Have  told  me  what? 

284 


MRS.  KENYON. — 

What  if  I  told  that  that  noble  gentleman, 
Who  but  this  hour  went  bitter  from  my  door 
That  Harriet  denied  him  courtesy 
That  's  shown  unto  the  meanest  servant  here  : 
What  if  I  told  that  such  an  one  as  this 
Is  now  low-laid  beneath  the  linen  mound, 
Killed  by  a  madman  in  the  public  streets — 
What  if  I  told  you  this  ? 

HARRIET. —  O  no,  no,  no ! 

I  will  fall  down  and  never  rise  again, 
Making  a  shroud  out  of  my  whitened  hair. 

MRS.  KENYON. — 

It  is  a  bait  that  but  the  guilty  take. 

O  Harriet  loves  Stephen,  yet  she  will  deny  it. 

It  was  a  custom  when  I  was  a  maid 

To  still  deny  the  lover  and  his  love, 

Until  the  wedding  bells  rang  out  the  lie 

So  full  of  guiltlessness  and  bashful  ways. 

O  ho,  I  told  your  father  that  your  love 

Is  boundless  as  romance,  and  that  our  child 

Is  different  as  two  books  from  the  rude  world. 

HARRIET. — He  is  not  dead  ?  not  hurt  ? 

MRS.  KENYON.—      No,  be  assured  : 

Though  foul  attempt  was  made  upon  his  life. 

Forgive  me,  daughter,  that  I  moved  you  thus. 

Now  will  I  serve  you  Paris,  Harriet, 

Upon  a  golden  plate  for  your  bridal  feast. 

But  soft !  I  sent  for  Stephen  to  attend 

That  all  my  household  bespeak  congratulations 

In  his  escape. 

285 


HARRIET.—  O,  I'll  congratulate  him. 

Ay,  I'll  congratulate  him. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —      There  Harriet  spoke. 
Yet  't  was  exceeding  sad  what  did  befall : 
Still  all  must  die :  death  hangs  upon  our  lids 
And  mars  the  sight ;  it  weighs  upon  our  dreams, 
For  dreams  also  have  their  mortality, 
A  toad  that  croaks  in  every  living  spring ; 
Yet,  since  it  is  a  mystery,  our  hearts 
Not  being  assured  should  incline  to  beauty 
Weighing  the  hope  above  the  doubt,  believing 
That  hope  has  still  some  soul  of  prophecy. 

HARRIET. — What  do  you  mean? 

MRS.  KKNYON. —      Your  father  brings  report, 
Which  is  as  true  as  it  is  pitiful, 
That  the  bullet  that  this  unknown  madman  aimed 
At  Stephen  Burke,  O  still  unhappily, 
Struck  in  the  temple  Claudius  Paul  Spencer ; 
And  he  is  fallen  never  to  rise  again. 

IDIUA. — O  look  at  Harriet !  [Harriet  swoons. 

MRS.  KENYON.—      I'm  fond  and  foolish 
To  follow  thus  so  sudden  in  my  tale : 
My  heated  brain  o'er  leaps  the  cooler  period. 
The  joy,  and  then  the  heaviness  of  grief, 
Has  all  forespent  her,  even  as  it  should. 

IDIUA. — 

Look  where  she  stirs  again :  she  will  revive, 
I'll  chafe  her  hands.     O,  Harriet,  look  up : 
Wherefore,  sweet  cousin,  have  you  sunk  so  low? 

HARRIET. — (Reviving?) 

What  was  't  you  said  to  me  that  I  am  here? 
286 


IDILIA. — Claudius  Spencer  is  killed. 

HARRIET. —  Ay ;  so  I  thought. 

Claudius  Spencer  is  dead.     He  was  a  man 

Greater  than  all  his  works.     Some  men  twice  die, 

Die  in  their  self  and  in  unfinished  works, 

And  oft  the  works  mortality  cuts  off 

Is  the  greater  death ;  but  here  a  man  has  died. 

Now  I  stand. 

MRS.  KENYON.— 

I'll  fetch  some  cordial;  you  are  as  pale — 

HARRIET. — As  death.    Stay,  who  will  comfort  Venetia  ? 

MRS.  KENYON. — I  know  not  who. 

HARRIET. —  This  grief  may  be  her  death. 

Besides  this  is  report,  which  I  will  doubt 
Till  I  have  spoken  with  Venetia. 

MRS.  KENYON. — Be  over-ruled;  your  health  is  very  dear. 

HARRIET. — I  '11  go  to  her  in  human  sympathy. 

MRS.  KENYON. — As  you  will.  {Exeunt. 

Scene  j. — An  ante-room  to  police  station. 
Enter  Todd  and  BurrilL 

TODD. — A  plague  on  your  trade,  Burrill,  a  plague  I 
say.  May  not  a  poet  and  a  gentleman  grapple  with  a 
lunatic  o'  the  old  school,  but  a  legion  o'  straining  lead- 
snappers,  I  mean  reporters,  sweep  down  on  him  as  though 
he  had  the  North  Pole  in  his  breeches  pocket?  An'  had 
I  been  lean  I  had  been  an  agitator. 

BuRRiUv. — Why,  you  heathen  barbecue. 

TODD. — Heathen  barbecue  ! 

v. — Ay,  sir,  all  flesh  and  no  grace. 

287 


TODD. — Come,  Burrill,  there  are  times  when  hell  is 
sacred.  Why,  what  idle  work  is  a  man  that  an  ounce  of 
lead  is  gross  enough  to  thrust  him  out  o'  question  !  what 
trifles  raise  him  to  eternity  !  O  frailty,  frailty,  I  'gin  to 
think  there  's  vanity  even  in  office. 

BURRILI,. — Held  you  any  opinion  to  the  contrary? 

TODD. — Faith,  Death  is  cheap  enough  to  entertain;  but 
I  flattered  myself  there  was  red  tape  in  office  to  make  him 
think  twice  before  checkmating  a  politician.  Now  I  see 
something  rotten  lies  that  way. 

BURRLUU — Sure,  the  poets  lie  that  way,  and  there  's 
living  in  that  lie — for  the  poets. 

TODD. — I  hate  a  punster,  and  a  poor  punster  is  an 
abomination. 

BURRILL. — All  your  great  men  have  made  puns  in 
their  day,  and  poor  ones  at  that. 

TODD. — Zounds,  to  emulate  the  bum  o'  greatness  to  be 
accredited  with  its  better  parts. 

Enter  a  Reporter. 

REPORTER. — These  are  the  times  that  try  the  press  and 
reporters.  He  is  cut  off  of  all  tongues ;  language  sleeps 
and  will  not  be  waked. 

TODD. — Yerk  it  in  the  ribs. 

REPORTER. — This  lunatic  who  killed  Spencer  has 
fallen  dead  of  heart  disease,  or  drink,  or  what  you  will, 
as  man  proposes  and  wealth  disposes.  Yet  the  reason  of 
this  shooting  shall  be  sifted,  and  if  it  be  discovered  the 
newspapers  will  discover  it ;  the  law  is  mighty  but  the 
newspaper  prevails.  Get  you  in,  Burrill;  I'd  rather  be 
a  stale  fly  between  the  sheets  of  an  old  Dutch  calendar 

288 


than  report  for  your  paper.     Why,  man,  there  's  columns 
in  it.  [Exit. 

TODD. — I  would  confound  him  were  not  curses  money 
to  you  newspaper  men. 

Enter  Burke  and  an  Officer. 
Is  he  dead,  Burke  ? 
BURKE. — Ay. 

TODD. — Why  the  devil  did  I  send  for  Spencer  to  come 
to  my  rooms  that  he  pass  the  way  to  his  death.  O  office, 

0  appointment,  O  politics,  where  are  your  honors  ?  where 
is  your  light?     But  zounds,  Burke,  the  madman  called 
on  your  soul  and  had  I  not  passed  near  to  meet  Spencer 
why  you  were  now  somewhere  in  the  fifth  dimension.     I 
marred  him  and  saved  you,  and  my  conscience  stands  in 
the  difference  of  worth.     You  owe  me  a  tombstone,  Burke. 

BURKK. — That  this  old  man  was  other  than  mad  in 
attempting  my  life,  which  his  unbroken  silence  testifies 
to,  is  a  matter  a  dog  writ,  a  fool  published,  and  asses 
quote. 

BURRIU,. — Here  's  a  large  head  indeed;  here  's  a 
chained  scoop;  here  's  the  Press  in  breeches;  here  's  a 
magnifico  who  can  edit  a  newspaper  on  sight. 

BURKK. — Go  to,  go  to,  you  are  too  young  in  this. 

BuRRiiviy. — It  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  body's  age. 
' Ware  your  austerity ;  I  will  smite  you  past  and  present : 

1  am  the  Press;  I  am  the  power  behind  the  type:  I'll 
over-run  you  with  brevier,  I'll  confute  you  with  long 
primer;  I'll  edit  your  soul;  I'll  make  an  extra  of  you; 

289 


I'll  damn  you  on  reserve ;  I'll  slander  your  physiognomy  ; 
I'll  garble;  I'll  rumor;  I'll  construe;  I'll  press-damn 
you.  Zounds,  sir,  I'll  never  bury  the  pencil — • 

TODD. — Tush,  you  would  write  up  your  own  damna- 
tion for  news. 

BURRII.IV. — Let  me  have  done ;  there  's  something 
wants  damning. 

TODD. — 'Sdeath,  you  power,  you  puissance  behind  the 
office  cat.  What,  Burke,  did  Burrill  write  that  this  old 
fellow  was  ruined  by  stocks  you  debased?  That 's  a 
barnacle  on  the  bears. 

OFFICER. — Mr.  Todd,  you  are  called. 

BURKE. — Good  day,  Todd:  you  "  awoke  one  morning 
and  found  yourself  famous. ' ' 

TODD. — Good  day,  Burke  :  I  awoke  one  morning  and 
found  myself  damned.  Come,  sire. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Burke. 

BURKE. — 

Ay,  death  's  the  bear  of  bears ;  it  pulls  all  down. 
Now  is  the  organ  of  calumny  choked  up, 
And  cannot  vent  distempers  on  my  name ; 
The  public  front  is  smoothed,  and  death,  not  gold, 
Has  bridged  a  hell  of  truth  and  circumstance. 
But  soft,  who  warned  me  after?     I'd  know  that, 
And  glance  my  credit  by  a  stronger  light. 
Kismet,  I'll  give  out  that  my  health  is  poor, 
And  travel  hence  into  some  foreign  land — 
The  brave  man  travels  and  the  weak  repent — 
Nor  come  again  until  this  slander  's  spent.      [Exit. 

290 


Scene  4. — A  room  in  Spencer's  house. 
Enter  Brewster,  John,  and  Drake. 

BREWSTER. — 

Youth  shield  her  still  when  this  comes  to  her  ear : 
Her  brother's  death  is  sorrow  to  the  quick  ; 
Add  now  her  father's  death. 

DRAKE. —  Sir,  sir, 

She  must  not  know.     Be  advised  of  comfort  and 
In  drift  of  falsehood  keep  her  from  the  shock 
Of  her  father's  death. 

BREWSTER. —  I  will  consider  it. 

DRAKE. — 

O,  sir,  we  must  be  instant  in  device 
Or  mar  all  comfort.     Every  drop  of  blood 
Whispers  the  conscience  to  hypocrisy: 
I^et  's  tell  her  that  her  father  has  a  fever, 
And  that  her  presence  here  is  dangerous, 
Still  smothering  his  heart  in  sympathy: 
So  shall  her  love  persuade  her  hence  awhile, 
Whose  every  hour  will  be  a  kind  of  lock 
Letting  her  heart  down  from  this  fearful  height; 
And  of  his  death  an  expectation  make 
From  fear  to  determination  that  the  end 
Shall  prove  more  of  a  pressure  than  a  shock, 
And  she  will  bend,  not  break.     It  is  my  right, 
I  take  it,  sirs. 

JOHN. —  It  is  a  warp  of  mercy. 

291 


BREWSTER. — I  am  determined. 
Enter  Matron. 

Look,  the  lady  comes  : 
Make  known  your  suit. 

DRAKE. —  Madam,  please  come  aside; 

I  've  a  suit  with  you.          [Exeunt  Matron  and  Drake. 

JOHN. —  Are  you  persuaded,  sir, 

That  this  will  prove  the  security  it  seems? 
If  she  be  armed  'gainst  this,  what  shall  we  do  ? 

BREWSTER. — Do  as  we  may,  we  may  do  but  our  best. 

JOHN. — 

O  God !  heaven  is  razed  o'er  these  four  walls 
That  was  the  roof,  and  there  's  no  roof  o'erhead, 
And  I  am  beaten  to  the  earth  by  storm. 
My  nephew  killed  !  and  now  my  brother  dead, 
Tripped  by  pure  grief !  I  would  unto  my  God 
That  we  were  brothers  in  death. 

BREWSTER. —  Let  us  go  in, 

And  guard  the  body  that  she  not  inherit 
To-morrow's  legacy  with  to-day's  nerves.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  5. — Another  room  in  Spencer's  house. 
Enter  Harriet  y   Venetia,  and  Idilia. 

VENETIA. — 

O  draw  aside  the  curtains,  Harriet, 
And  flood  the  room  with  light ;  it  grows  so  dark. 
Nay,  draw  them  back  ;  I  do  not  like  the  light : 
Even  as  before.     I  thank  you,  patient  friends. 

292 


HARRIET. — 

Our  hearts  are  but  as  rich  as  your  demands — 
No  more — and  every  plaint  you  make  to  us 
Makes  us  more  rich.     Will  you  not  step  outside  ? 
A  little  way  will  bring  us  to  a  grove 
Of  pleasant  paths  and  restful  memories  ; 
Where  the  air  is  like  a  mother  on  the  brow. 
O  come. 

VENETIA. —  It  is  too  far  :  here  will  I  droop 

And  never  stir. 

HARRIET. —  Be  comforted,  Venetia; 

Some  days  are  fevers  that  must  run  their  course 
To  madness  and  the  past  allied.     Dear  heart, 
These  first  days  o'er  and  loss  looks  from  the  skies, 
Will  you  not  make  a  willing  pilgrimage 
With  Idilia  and  me  ?     I  know  a  gentle  seat 
Looking  toward  the  sea,  where  the  heavy  heart 
Is  comforted.     You  must  not  live  apart — 
O  list — and  decline  into  that  pallid  brood 
That 's  more  of  sorrow  than  of  earth. 

VENETIA. —  The  sailor  says 

The  sea  gives  back  our  dead  ;  while  others  say 
The  country  gives  us  back  our  dead  ;  others, 
The  mountains  or  the  night  or  solitude ; 
But  my  heart  whispers  he  will  not  come  again, 
And  where  I  am  still  there  my  sorrow  is 
And  he  is  not. 

HARRIET. — (Aside)  O  heart,  be  stone  till  night. 

VENETIA. — 

Once  more,  stay  by  me  ;  leave  me  not  alone. 
It  is  your  promise. 

293 


We  will. 

VENETIA. —  So  kind,  so  kind. 

HARRIET. — O  come  where  the  air  is  stirred. 
VENETIA. —  Teach  me,  you  heavens, 

To  entertain  Death  for  an  angel. 
HARRIET. —  Walk  up  and  down  ; 

The  still  heart  is  ever  fraught. 
VENETIA. —  O  my  poor  father, 

I  pity  you  then. 
IDILIA. —  Look,  what  you  bear  in  quiet 

You  do  not  bear  in  vain  :  this  self  same  loss 

Weighs  on  your  father's  heart.     Be  patient  then; 

Let  pity  comfort  you. 

HARRIET. —  Will  you  pass  outside? 

IDIUA. — I  think  not,  cousin  :  importune  no  more. 

Enter  Matron. 
MATRON. — 

My  sweet  Venetia,  you  must  go  with  me — 

This  makes  your  father  sick,  and,  if  you  stay, 

Your  presence  turns  to  pain  through  sympathy. 

Come  to  my  home. 

VENETIA. —  Let  mourners  not  be  divided. 

MATRON. — 

Ah,  but  you  must  that  grief  division  have. 

'Tis  for  the  best. 
IDIUA. —  Now  grief  give  her  to  me. 

I'll  not  be  parted.     Come,  Venetia, 

And  be  my  grief- fellow. 
MATRON.  God  seal  that  choice. 

IDILJA. — Then  come  away,  Venetia,  and  make  ready. 

[Exeunt  Venetia  and  Idilia. 

294 


MATRON. — 

Hush,  Harriet,  this  is  a  blessed  election, 

And  I  have  let  it  fall  though  it  has  grieved 

The  very  heart  of  love  to  give  it  seal : 

To  thrust  upon  another  heaviness 

Is  not  a  custom  with  me;  but  in  this 

I  stand  excused.     Now  give  attentive  ear;— 

And  you  were  framed  for  truth,  not  flattery, — 

Election  that  this  is  of  free  consent 

'Tis  made  in  ignorance  of  what  's  to  come, 

And  only  pity  in  a  dealing  with  pity 

Has  given  it  seal. 

HARRIET. —  Yea,  I  am  pitiful. 

MATRON. — 

Her  father  sleeps  beside  her  brother  and 
She  knows  it  not,  nor  must  she  know  it  yet, 
Which  cannot  be  avoided  if  she  bide 
Beneath  this  roof;  while,  too,  the  neighborhood 
Is  dangerous,  and  these  unkindest  walls 
Overlook  my  home ;  therefore  I  lend  her  you 
That  for  a  little  while  she  may  be  spared 
That  she  may  be  prepared. 

HARRIKT.—  Her  father  dead  ! 

O  how  came  it? 

MATRON. —  Subdued  by  pure  grief 

He  quit  his  grief.  But,  Harriet,  do  not  weep  ; 
You  shall  look  upon  his  face,  which  is  as  clear 
As  newly  lifted  from  prayer. 

HARRIET. —  Why  do  you  torture  me? 

What  more  of  horror,  what  new  rack  to  stretch 
My  soul  upon?     Tell  me  the  world  is  dead, 
295 


And  I  will  mark  you  with  attentive  ear 
And  swear  o'er  every  separate  syllable. 
I  'm  sick. 

MATRON. —  Your  sympathy  has  made  you  sick, 

lyet  's  speak  no  more  of  this.     Your  book,  I  hear — 

Enter  Brewster. 

O,  sir,  I  have  told  Harriet  how  it  stands: — 

Her  cousin  begged  Venetia  go  with  her 

Unto  her  home. 
BREWSTER. —  This  is  most  fortunate. 

How,  is  she  gone? 
MATRON. —  She  's  making  ready,  sir, 

And  yet  to  go. 
BREWSTER. —  In  parting,  she  must  not  come 

Unto  the  father :  I  've  left  a  servant  there 

To  guard  the  body.     It  will  cost  some  pain. 
MATRON. — Hush,  hush!  I  hear  one  weeping. 

BREWSTER. —  I  do  not  hear  it. 

Where? 

MATRON. — In  the  hallway. 

BREWSTER.—  'Tis  the  brother  there. 

MATRON. — A  woman  weeping. 

BREWSTER. —  What,  do  you  think  so  ? 

MATRON. —  Hark !  [A  cry  within. 

BREWSTER. — 

It  cannot  be  she  has  discovered  this. 
Madam,  come  with  me :  Harriet,  go  home, 
You  are  not  needed  here. 

296 


Enter  John. 

JOHN. —  Was  that  from  here, 

That  cry? 
BREWSTER. —  'Tis  nothing. 

Enter  Drake. 
DRAKE. —  Who  cried  like  that?    O  say. 

Enter  Idilia. 
IDIUA. — 

Where  is  Venetia  ?  is  she  with  her  father  ? 

I  heard  a  cry. 

Enter  Venetia. 

Venetia,  is  it  you? 
VENETI  A  . — (Sings) 

''The  Lord  is  my  shepherd, 

No  want  shall  I  know ; 
I  feed  in  green  pastures, 
Safe  folded  I  rest  "— 

HARRIET. — She  is  mad  !  Oh,  oh,  oh ! 
VENETI  A  . — (Sings) 

1 '  He  leadeth  my  soul 

Where  the  still  waters  flow, 
Restores  me  when  wandering, 
Redeems  when  oppressed." 
BREWSTER.— 

Friends,  stand  aside ;  she  knows  too  much  of  death 
And  it  has  frightened  her.     'Twill  pass,  I  think. 
Let 's  humor  her  :  Miss  Spencer,  it  is  time 
That  you  were  going ;  see,  'tis  six  o'clock. 
Your  friends  stay  for  you. 
297 


IDILIA. —  Waiting,  Venetia. 

MATRON. — Come,  let  us  go ;  it  is  a  pleasant  walk. 

VENETIA. — j  pray  you,  give  me  all  your  hearts,  every 
one,  every  one  :  give  me  everything  you  have,  O  every- 
thing. 

BREWSTER. — 

I  think  my  watch  is  right ;   'tis  almost  six, 
Almost  I  say,  and  draws  toward  the  hour 
I  take  my  leave.     Miss  Spencer,  will  you  go? 
You  see  we  stay.     Come,  I  'm  a  busy  man. 

VENETIA. — (  To  Harriet}  Are  you  the  ninth  bridesmaid  ? 

HARRIET. — No,  I  am  Harriet  Kenyon.  I  would  I 
were  not. 

VENETIA. — Heart  o'  mine,  what  would  you? 

HARRIET. — 

I  would  that  I  were  dead,  forever  laid 
Beyond  my  troubles  and  my  troublings. 

VENETIA. — May  your  grave  be  greener  for  that  wish 
with  good  men's  tears.  (Sings) 

"  Restores  me  when  wandering, 
Redeems  when  oppressed." 
HARRIET. — 

O,  sweet  Venetia,  wherefore  are  you  thus  ? 
Was  not  your  brother's  death  an  intercession 
Between  the  heavens  and  this  fraughted  mind  ? 
VENETIA. — The  first  o'  June,  the  first  o'  June,  O  the 
first   o'  June.     'Tis   a  good  lesson  and  I  learned  it  to 
teach,  and  the  first  o'  June  in  the  temple  flattered  me. 
Come  early,  children,  and  tread  lightly,  you  rogues. 

298 


DRAKE.— 

0  God  !  is  this  the  work  of  chance  or  fiends  ? 
A  first  of  June  I  was  to  call  you  wife  ; 
What  do  they  call  you  now  ?     O,  Venetia, 

1  will  not  say  farewell,  but  I  must  turn 
And  hide  my  face.     Ah,  that  accursed  dog 
That  killed  your  brother,  whose  untimely  end 
Has  fraught  your  mind  and  put  you  from  yourself, 
And  made  me  but  the  bridegroom  of  a  dream, 
Shall  pay  for  his  trespass  unto  the  death.        {Exit. 

VENETIA. — No,  I  will  not  buy  your  paper  ;  my  brother 
shall  come  home  and  all  be  well.  I  am  coming,  father. 

HARRIET. — Pretty  Venetia,  cannot  you  throw  this  off 
by  great  endeavor?  You  are  not  as  wont,  don't  you 
understand? 

VENETIA. — I  am  dead. 

BREWSTER. — Look  on  this  painting  and  tell  me  what 
it  means. 
VENETIA. — (Sings) 

The  rainbow  hangs  on  Vernal  Fall, 
The  mist  on  Bridal  Veil, 
Where  hanging  walls 
Drop  swaying  falls 
To  bugle  calls. 

Hark,  hark,  the  bells,  the  bells,  the  bells  !     {Exit. 
MATRON. — 

May  He  send  his  beloved  sleep, 
That  she  forget.  {Exit. 

BREWSTER. —  Miss  Kenyon,  Miss  Hartland,  take 

You  cannot  aid  us  and  you  clog  our  care.         [leave: 

Good  night. 

299 


HARRIET. —  Nay,  sir,  'tis  good  that  I  am  here. 

If  you  can  move  my  cousin,  O  persuade  her; 

But  for  myself  I  will  not  stir  an  inch 

Though  she  grow  dangerous.    These  two  poor  hands, 

The  method  in  my  brain,  my  body's  strength, 

And  all  I  am,  unto  this  fraughted  heart 

In  service  is  addressed,  for  service  is 

The  only  jewel  that  remains  with  me. 

Ah,  never  pluck  that  jewel  from  my  soul; 

But,  kind  physician  and  true  gentleman, 

Bear  not  against  me  your  authority 

Yet  'gainst  my  cousin. 
BREWSTER. —  Her  strength  quite  o'ertops  yours, 

And  since  you  linger  I  shall  not  persuade; 

But  if  she  goes  you  shall  depart  with  her. 

Miss  Hartland,  I  will  tempt  her  back  again: 

Quiet  her  if  you  can,  humor  her  if  you  must. 

I  think  this  comes  of  some  base  treachery — 

The  servant  gave  her  entry  to  the  dead, 

And  now  there  is  a  funeral  of  method 

I  greatly  fear.  [Exit. 

JOHN. —  Surely  the  worst  is  come. 

Beseech  you,  gentle  ladies,  do  not  stay; 

He  's  very  learned  and  counsels  for  the  best.   [Exit. 
HARRIET. — 

O  me,  this  is  the  lightning  of  our  fate 

Striking  from  out  a  black  but  unseen  sky. 

But  one  brief  hour  and  she  was  reasonable, 

Scalding  my  hands  with  tears;  grasping  my  hands 

As  though  they  were  her  heaven  and  her  earth; 

And  now  she  has  not  the  discourse  of  grief. 
300 


All  is  undone;  the  fraught  and  fearful  brain 
Is  now  distraction's  cell,  and  in  her  eye 
A  white  horror  floats.     O  God  !  unless  I  serve 
I  shall  go  mad. 

Re-enter  Venetia^  Brewster,  and  Matron. 
VENETIA. — (Sings) 

Laugh  who  will  and  laugh  who  must, 
All  who  laugh  shall  come  to  dust. 

Well,  I  have  my  heart's  desire  ;  they  call  me  the  full- 
throated  star,  and  in  tribute  send  me  more  flowers  than 
the  dead.  Has  woman  known  more?  could  woman  know 
more?  could  woman  ask  more?  No,  no,  call  me  not 
proud  ;  pride  is  wicked.  O  no,  no,  no,  no  ! 

HARRIET. — Alas,  my  lost  Venetia,  you  are  not  proud. 
Were  it  not  that  I  live  you  were  the  most  humble  of 
God's  creatures. 

BREWSTER. — (Aside) 

How  's  this  ;  she  takes  the  evil  on  herself. 
It  cannot  be  she  told  of  the  father's  death  ; 
She  could  not  have  foreknown  :  yet  so  it  seems. 
VENETIA. — Ah  !     See,  see,  O  see,  the  curtain  is  up, 
and  'tis  a  full  house  to-night :  they  say  there  is  not  dying 
room.     O  where,  where  is  my  musician  ?  I  sing  the  bridal 
hymn  to-night ;  yet  though  I  marry  I  will  live  at  my 
father's  house. 

HARRIET. — Mayhaps  music  will  comfort  her :  I  will 
play.  O  it  is  said  that  music  is  medicine  to  such  as 
these,  and  has  in  it  a  soul  of  recognition  to  the  disjoint 
mind.  Let  us  hope.  \$he  plays. 

301 


(Sings) 

I  smell  the  budding  moon 

That  makes  the  L,ove  god  swoon. 

I  am  a  bride  to-night :  shall  not  a  bride  rejoice? 
(Sings) 

Hush  !  hush  !  ye  golden  star, 
Ye  blended  voice  and  light ; 
Hush  !  hush  !  while  winds  unbar 
The  clouded  Queen  of  night : 

Soft  winds  that  breathe  and  blow 

From  rose-bloom  laid  asleep. 
While  Venus  burn  and  glow 
Within  the  azure  deep. 

Hush  !  hush  !  ye  beating  tide, 
Ye  blended  voice  and  hymn ; 
Hush  !  hush  !  while  I/ove,  young-eyed, 
Laugheth  at  bridal  dim  : 

Soft  laughter  of  twin  wings 

Beating  the  faint  moon-beams. 
While  golden  midnight  brings 
Dreams,  dreams,  dreams,  dreams. 

lyift  me  up,  up,  up. 

HARRIET. — 

O  me,  what  part  is  this  !  the  dead  are  here, 
And  I  am  making  music.     O,  my  friends, 
She  must  be  quieted;   'tis  too  horrible. 

VENETIA.— "Thou  shalt  not  kill." 

302 


HARRIED. — (Aside) 

O  God,  that  this  thrice-fevered  brain  would  turn 
And  fall  as  low  as  Lethe's  tide. 

MATRON. — Venetia,  the  people  are  gone;  in  divided 
way,  poor  child,  but  with  undivided  praise.  Come  now, 
you  must  rest. 

BREWSTER. — Madam,  lead  her  away.  I  will  give  her 
opiates  that  she  sleep  and  cast  this  fraught  in  sleep. 

VENETIA. — Thou  shalt,  thou  shalt, — O  what  is  it,  what 
is  it ?  "Thou  shalt — honor  thy  father  and  mother/' 

BREWSTER. — She  weeps;  'tis  a  good  sign.  Come, 
madam,  lead  her  to  her  room.  Miss  Kenyon,  I  would  go 
now.  [Exeunt  Brewster  and  Matron,  leading  Venetia. 

HARRIET. — "  'Tis  a  good  sign"  :  I  will  go  pray. 
IDIUA. — 

Let  us  be  patient.     O  my  eyes  have  bled 
To  look  upon  this  piteous  spectacle 
With  but  the  heart  and  not  the  art  to  mend. 
Her  wants  are  boundless  and  our  means  are  naught, 
Yet  when  we  turn  our  faces  from  distress 
Let 's  turn  to  heaven.     O  the  flower  has  lost 
Its  cadence,  not  its  perfume;  artlessly 
She  has  confessed  the  marriage  of  her  heart 
With  music. — Poor  bride's  heart,  where  is  your  joy? 
HARRIET. — 

Madness  has  been  a  craft  to  catch  the  sighs 

Of  her  renounced  heart ;  and  these  dear  sighs 

Bespeak  a  most  brave  heart ;  which  whispers  me, 

Stealing  and  giving  life,  she  yet  may  live 

To  lift  ten  thousand  with  her  finer  voice. 

Some  clay  the  potter  of  repentance  has 

To  shape  a  prayer.     O  come  away:  weep  not. 

[Exeunt. 
303 


ACT   V. 

Scene  i. — A   Cemetery  :    before  the  graves  of  Spencer 
and  Claudius. 

Enter  Drake  and  Curtis:    then  Todd. 

TODD.— 

Ah,  gentlemen,  Whaur  's  Claudie  Spencer  noo  ? 
I  come  to  meditate  upon  that  thought, — 
His  taking  off  made  me  philosophical, — 
And  that  I  owe  some  memory  to  his  bones. 
CURTIS. — 

These  are  the  graves ;  the  father  and  the  son, 
Cut  off  by  accident  and  heavy  grief : 
Too  sudden  for  philosophy.     Their  names 
Might  not  be  struck  so  swift ;  ere  you  could  bring 
A  shock  against  his  name,  the  man  is  dust 
Who  gave  that  name  its  quality  and  being. 
TODD. — This  cannot  be  said  of  me.     In  this  respect  I 
am  greater  than  my  name.      'Tis  a  good  moral  that  a 
man  not  thrust  himself  into  position  to  be  less  than  his 
name.     Well,  the  dead  have  their  name,  the  living  their 
philosophy,  and  so  it  will  ever  be. 
DRAKE. — 

The  deep  iniquity  before  is  come  to  compt. 
He  was  my  dearest  friend,  and,  be  it  said, 
His  heaviest  fault  weighs  light  within  the  beam 
Besides  his  worth  :  and  none  may  ever  know 
What  promise  by  his  death  was  overthrown. 

304 


That  it  will  rise  again,  I  am  to  learn  ; 
I  can  but  know  that  he  is  wholly  down, 
And  much  is  tripped. 

TODD.—  Sure,  yet  a  little  while, 

And  one  will  meditate  above  my  urn. 
Leaning  thus  against  the  paling  of  that  spot, — 
I  wonder  where  't  will  be — if  hereabout — 
With  chin  in  hand,  he  will  sigh  up  a  world 
Of  better  days  to  the  melancholy  stone 
Of  my  last  mile  :  which  stone  he  will  read  thrice, 
Saying,  "Yes,  that  is  true;  I  chance  to  know." 
Then  will  he  speak  of  knowing  me  in  life: 
11 1  knew  him  well;  he  was  fraternity; 
And  he  would  have  his  jest,  and  oft  would  jest 
Where  he  most  cleaved:  of  all  men  in  his  time 
He  best  expressed  and  knew  that  vanity 
Which  is  of  office:  he  found  the  poets  lean 
And  left  them  portly:  he  knew  himself,  and  loved 
The  sweets  o'  life,  and  thought  to  live  six-score; 
But  five-score  God  was  willing  :  so  he  died: — 
Who  would  have  thought  that  Dugal  would  go  next !' ' 
Then  heaving  a  sigh  will  say,  (%ord,  what  are  we?" 

DRAKE. — 

True,  we  shall  miss  you,  Dugal;  let  that  pass. 
'Tis  a  simple  epitaph  that  's  graven  here; 
His  name  is  elsewhere  with  his  memory: 
Here  lies  his  ashes  in  a  metal  casket 
Consigned  to  dust.     Well  done,  Bohemia:  rest. 

Enter  Harriet,  Venetia,  and  Idilia  at  a 
distance ',  bearing  flowers. 

But  look,  where  comes  the  sister:  let  's  pass  on. 
305 


TODD. — Go  before,  friends;  I  will  thrust  me  here  and 
there  and  read  epitaphs  till  dinner  time. 

[Exeunt  Curtis,  Drake,  and  Todd. 
HARRIET. — 

Humbly  I  lay  these  flowers  on  the  turf, 
And  thinly  scatter  them  that  they  smell  sweet. 
When  one  has  lost  herself,  come  to  the  grave 
And  she  shall  find  herself. 

VENETIA. —  Alas,  my  dead  ! 

I  lay  this  wreath  beside  you:  it  will  wilt. 
There  is  a  wilderness  about  my  heart; 
I  would  that  I  were  dead. 

HARRIET. —  Let  us  be  firm: 

We  come  to  take  farewell  a  little  while 
Of  these  windowless  and  doorless  tenements; 
I'  the  morning  we  go  southward:  it  is  well. 
O  here,  even  here  your  brother  Claudius  sleeps. 

VENETIA. — 

He  '11  never  leave  me  now !     I  'm  sure  of  this, 
And  sure  of  nothing  else. 

IDIUA.—  Be  comforted. 

Venetia,  where  is  your  school-mate's  grave? 
Is  't  backward  or  beyond. 

VENETIA. —  O,  even  here. 

Give  me  the  flowers  and  I  will  go  apart 

Where  death  's  less  fearful.    {She  retires  with  flowers. 

IDILIA. —  O  you've  forbid  my  tears 

Or,  Harriet,  I  would  weep  to  think  him  dead 
Who  was  to  be  your  husband  and  whom  you  loved. 

306 


O  chide  me  not  if  nature  show  her  drops  ; 
Your  heart  's  as  melting  but  your  will  's  resolved. 
And,  dearest  sister,  give  your  grief  its  due  ; 
That  heavy  grief,  closed  in,  which  does  not  kill, 
Changes  the  woman  into  stone. 

HARRIET.  —  I  told  you  ; 

And  none  but  you,  Idilia,  know  of  this  ;  — 
Whether  I  had  a  right  to  burden  you 
My  brain  was  too  perplexed  to  rightly  know  — 
But  let  that  pass  —  I  told  I  was  betrothed 
To  him  whose  spirit  I  may  never  meet  — 
For  who  can  prophesy  beyond  the  grave  ? 
And  though,  Idilia,  I  still  have  found  it  hard, 
O  most,  most  hard  to  know  that  he  is  dead 
And  shall  not  come  again  —  a  mask  it  is 
To  wear  on  the  soul's  face;  —  yet  I  resay, 
Since  'tis  to  bear,  bear  it  I  will. 


Yes,  Harriet. 
'Tis  a  quiet  day. 

HARRIET.  —  A  quiet  day,  Idilia. 

Were  grief  by  beauty  patched  our  hearts  were  whole. 

Venetia  comes  :  she  looks  most  heavily  ; 

Sorrow  has  worn  her  features  to  the  lines 

And  lineament  that  ever  was  the  truth 

Beneath  this  outward  image  and  brief  summer  mask. 

The  human  face  is  a  melancholian 

O'er  which  the  painting  of  a  joy  is  drawn, 

That  Time  erase  this  cunning  mask,  put  on 

In  mockery  of  youth,  and  teach  us  what  we  are. 

307 


VENETIA.— 

Soft,  let  me  see, — my  memory  's  not  good, — 
She  has  been  dead  three  years,  September  bring 
The  autumn  leaf.     She  was  as  clear  and  bright 
And  full  of  mischief  as  a  holiday 
In  June;  and  never  till  I  grieved  for  her 
Was  I  bereaved  of  some  dear  friend  and  patiently 
Stood  waiting  her  return.     Life  is  a  gate 
Whereby  we  stand  to  greet  expected  ones, 
And  some  shall  come  and  some  shall  not. 

HARRIET. —  Even  so. 

And  could  we  but  forget,  't  were  not  so  ill; 
And  could  we  cease  to  think,  't  were  not  so  ill; 
And  did  we  never  dream,  't  were  not  so  ill, 
For  dreams  are  oft  the  hand  that  pulls  us  down 
When  we  armed  against  the  hand  of  day, 
For  sorrow  is  not  single,  but  in  dreams 
Lives  o'er  its  nature,  and  our  waking  is 
The  stuff  our  dreams  are  made  of  and  our  dreams 
Walk  with  us  from  morn  to  sable  eve.     O  come. 

VENETIA.— 

I  '11  say  farewell  and  go  with  leaden  step. 
This  cruel  affliction  rises  in  my  brain, 
Forced  up  by  tears;  I  dare  no  longer  stay 
Lest  grief  undo  me.     Farewell,  my  triple  eye, 
That  ever  looks  in  heaven,  though  the  eye 
In  my  faint  brain  is  troubled  with  the  mote 
Of  dim  mortality  and  oft  is  veiled 
'Neath  lid  of  dust. 

IDIUA.—  O  corne  away,  heavily.     [Exeunt. 

308 


Scene  2. — Parlors  in  Kenyon's  house. 

Enter  Kenyan  and  Mrs.  Kenyan. 

KKNYON. — 

Though  yet  our  Harriet's  behavior  seems  disjoint, 
Else  I  have  not  the  judgment  and  respect 
Of  which  I  was  possessed  before  her  change, 
She  'gins  to  mend.     The  pressure  is  removed 
Or  qualified  that  made  her  singular  ; 
And  where  she  erst  did  dream,  unbuckling  still 
The  capable  and  active  gird  in  plethora  of  thought, 
A  kind  of  austerity  has  rooted  itself 
Bending  the  curve  of  youth  into  the  line 
Of  womanhood  :  and  now,  since  she  has  cast 
The  flowered  vest  of  youth,  she  seems  new  framed 
For  deeds  of  duty. 

MRS.  KKNYON.—      I  cannot  find  it  so. 

Till  morning,  with  her  cheek  upon  her  hand, 
Oft  by  her  casement  I  have  found  her  out. 
About  her  age  'twas  even  thus  with  me  ; 
My  vineyard  was  the  heaven  of  fine  stars, 
Where  I  would  feast  until  the  envious  morn 
Latched  up  the  gate. 

KKNYON. —  Indeed,  I  sometimes  think 

Our  dreams  and  generations  are  still  one; 
But  youth  is  troubled  dew  ;  we  cannot  know  : 
It  is  a  jewel  in  the  rough  o'  God 
For  parents  to  cut ;  but  yet  we  cannot  know. 
And  when  a  stone  's  imperfect,  who  's  at  fault, 
Or  nature  or  the  artist  ?  teach  me  that : 
Why,  oft  it  is  the  stone  itself  is  flawed, 
And  oft  we  see  the  artist  is  at  fault. 
309 


Our  daughter  much  affects  this  new  found  friend 
Whose  loss  distracted  her  for  several  hours. 
She  is  a  gentle  lady,  and  betrothed 
Unto  the  son  of  my  most  worthy  friend, 
And  welcome  for  his  sake  and  Harriet's. 
MRS.  KKNYON. — 

And  welcome  yet  again,  if  all  were  known. 
My  arms  enfold  her  as  my  heart  a  thought : 
She  is  the  music  of  my  pulses,  sir. 
How  !  do  you  smile  as  though  my  love  was  shrewd  ? 
And  some  there  are  that  have  a  single  eye, 
And  some  there  are  that  have  a  triple  eye  ; 
And  he  that  has  the  single  eye  is  just  ? 
And  he  with  triple  eye  's  a  hypocrite  ? 
Nay,  these  are  but  the  simple  and  the  wise, 
The  seeing  and  the  blind,  nor  more  nor  less. 
I  think  there  's  yet  persuasion  in  the  love 
That  Harriet  bears  Venetia— how  it  grew 
I  am  to  learn;  but  now  that  it  is  grown 
I  '11  profit  by  it — to  move  our  Harriet 
To  return  into  society. 
KKNYON. —  Think  so  ? 

MRS.  KKNYON. — I  have  lived  long,  and  the  beginning 
taught  me  that  oft  my  heart  is  best  reached,  or  is  reached 
at  all,  through  another  and  particular  heart.     'Tis  even 
so  with  Harriet. 
KKNYON. — 

So  may  it  prove.     My  time  is  given  o'er 

Until  our  guests  arrive.  [Exit. 

Enter  Harriet. 
310 


HARRIET. —  Mother,  is  Jt  you? 

I  desire  to  speak  with  you,  though  moving  you 
To  some  regret.     You  have  mistaken  me; 
Grievously  mistaken  me. 

MRS.  KENYON.—      Why,  look  you,  Harriet, 
Have  I  mistaken  you?  no,  I  have  not; 
I  think  but  good  of  you  and  good  you  are. 
Therefore  I  've  not  mistaken  you. 

HARRIET. —  Yet  so. 

And  how  much  better  'tis  I  speak  of  this 
Than  allow  you  to  build  your  hopes  on  a  mistake. 
If  faith  is  dust  let 's  put 't  beneath  our  feet. 
The  matter  's  touching  Stephen  Burke. 

MRS.  KKNYON.—      Even  so. 

I  've  here  a  letter  from  that  gentleman; 
He  writes  me  from  the  South,  where  he  has  gone 
In  search  of  health,  that  for  these  many  days 
He  's  absent  from  his  almost-mother.     What, 
He  has  not  written  you  ?     O  no,  for  shame ! 

HARRIET.— But,  mother,  bear  with  me  a  little  while. 

Enter  Venetia. 

MRS.  KENYON. — 

Look  where  my  other  daughter  comes  apace. 
Venetia,  stand  here  by  Harriet:  so. 
O  'tis  a  painting  to  make  our  noblest  work, 
Could  it  be  penciled  in  fond  similitude, 
A  mote  to  trouble  the  eye  divine  of  Art. 
Venetia,  I  lose  you  in  the  morning  ?     What, 
And  Harriet  and  Idilia  !     Alas  ! 


My  brood  is  fledged  and  with  a  tender  wing 
It  takes  its  flight  from  its  beloved  roof- tree; 
And  like  the  mother  bird,  when  from  her  side 
Her  nestlings  rise  and  leave  her  all  bereaved, 
I  droop  forlorn,  and  gather  'neath  my  wings 
Three  shadows,  un comforted. 

HARRIET. —  Hush,  mother,  hush  ! 

You  shall  not  lose  us  scarce  a  summer  time. 
This  is  the  luxury  and  not  the  heart. 
I  say  you  grapple  us  too  close  for  that. 

MRS.  KKNYON. — 

Nay:  ere  the  calendar  shall  cast  its  leaves 
And  fall  into  the  withered  tree,  ye  three 
Shall  teach  the  tender  roof-tree  how  to  shoot. 

VKNKTIA. — 

I  dreamed  last  night  I  ran  my  race  and  died 
A  bachelor-maid. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —      Go,  mend  your  dreams. 

VKNKTIA.— 

I  have  a  pain  i'  my  temple  and  seek  Idilia 
That  she  massage  it. 

MRS.  KKNYON. —      She  's  in  the  conservatory. 
Surely  your  journey  will  correct  this  fault: 
Good  health  's  the  philosophy  of  human  life, 
And  where  is  perfect  health  your  country  is; 
And  finding  but  that  spot  sink  your  hearth-stone 
Deeper  than  travel  ever  razed. 

VKNKTIA. —  I  will. 

But  aside  from  my  great  loss  I  am  most  well, 

O  most,  most  well,  believe  me.  [Exit. 

312 


HARRIET. —  Now,  mother,  attend, 

And  bear  with  me  awhile.     E'en  as  I  am 
I  shall  remain;  I  never  will  wed  man, 
And  least  in  that  wed  this  same  gentleman 
Your  heart  is  fixed  upon.     That  I  love  him, 
You  cannot  dream;  and  that  I  care  for  him 
You  cannot  think:  and  if  you  hold  such  thoughts, 
You  do  me  wrong;  while,  if  you  speak  such  thoughts, 
You  do  me  mortal  wrong: — the  carrion  hours 
Of  such  alliance  offend  the  forward  instant. 

0  single  I  was  born,  and  single  lived, 

And  single  I  shall  die.     You  bear  the  scales, 

Weigh  me  ;  but  though  you  find  me  wanting  still 

That  shall  not  qualify  my  determination 

And  matured  purpose. 
MRS.  KEN  YON. —      Child  of  perversity, 

What  dream  and  maiden  fantasy  is  this  ? 

Rebellious  blazon  ! 
HARRIET. —  O,  dear  my  mother,  no. 

You  choosing  still  to  look  upon  it  thus, 

1  cannot  help  ;  but  to  this  point  I  stand, 
And  more  in  sorrow,  mother,  than  in  pride. 

MRS.  KENYON. — 

How  true 's  the  saying  that  youth  is  full  of  deaths 

And  niceties  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 

For  even  as  the  thread  is  fine  it  is  entangled. 

And,  surely,  the  finer  spirit  being  drawn 

From  what  'twas  bottomed  on  more  intricate 

Is  knitted  than  the  ruder  spirit  is. 

Therefore  I  do  not  give  my  Harriet  o'er : 

Patience  shall  bottom  her  upon  a  husband. 

A  bantling  for  this  maze.  [Exit. 

313 


Enter  Idilia. 

HARRIET. — Cousin,  how  dost  thou  ? 

IDILIA. — I  have  left  Venetia  swathed  in  the  dark ;  she 
has  a  pain  in  her  temple.  'Tis  an  idle  hour  in  a  busy 
day :  what  shall  we  throw  it  at  ? 

HARRIET. — Are  you  wholly  unengaged?  Speak  as 
you  are  moved. 

IDILIA. — Ay.  Where  have  you  spent  this  hour  ? 
Time  out  o'  writ,  I  found  you  by  the  merriest  laughter, 
later  I  found  you  by  searching,  now  I  often  come  where 
you  are,  but  cannot  find  you. 

HARRIET. — I  thought  to  sleep  but  was  oppressd. 

IDILIA. — Go  to  the  babe  and  learn  to  sleep. 

HARRIET. — But  are  you  wholly  unengaged  ? 

IDILIA. — Yes. 

HARRIET. — Would  you  like  I  speak  of  a  letter  I  re- 
ceived ?  It  cannot  be  said  I  have  lived  in  vain. 

IDILIA. — O,  not  one  has  lived  in  vain. 

HARRIET. — No,  for  indeed  these  that  live  not  in  vanity 
live  not  in  vain,  and  these  that  live  in  vain  shall  redeem 
that  vanity  in  dying:  so,  in  the  end,  none  live  in  vain. 
That  is  the  last  time  I  paint  another.  Once  it  was  a  cus- 
tom with  me  to  paint  myself  as  I  should  be  and  others  as 
they  were;  later  it  was  my  custom  to  paint  myself  as  I  was 
and  others  as  they  should  be;  still  later  it  was  my  custom 
to  paint  myself  as  I  was  and  others  as  they  were;  but  now 
I  will  make  it  a  custom  to  paint  myself  as  I  am  and  paint 
so  far  and  no  further. 

IDILIA. — Flattery  is  so  evident,  I  will  not  flatter  you. 


HARRIET. — But  come.  A  stranger  writes  me  that  one 
of  my  poems  has  persuaded  her  to  continue  in  an  honor- 
able life.  I  see  that  oft  a  book  makes  life  long  and  long 
life  worth  the  while,  and  years  shall  not  go  unrewarded. 

IDIUA. — This  should  flatter  3^ou,  if  you  have  a  heart 
for  flattery;  the  which  I  doubt  not. 

HARRIET. — Since  books  are  foods,  and  by  taking 
thought  of  them  we  can  add  to  our  stature,  lengthen  our 
life,  and  climb  to  the  top  of  health,  I  am  not  unworthy 
an  humble  caterer,  if  not  worthy  the  artist. 

IDIUA. — Will  you  make  your  art  a  caterer?  I  will 
criticise  you — and  my  criticism  is  the  salt  of  honest  tears 
— that  you  so  lowly  esteem  yourself.  Once  there  was  a 
rose  bush  in  the  garden  o'  the  gods  which  shook  down  all 
its  roses  that  it  be  humble  and  meek;  but  the  gods  cut  it 
down  that  it  bore  only  leaves  and  thorns. 

HARRIET. — That  these  lines  were  persuasive  stuff  and 
wrought  so  far  from  my  purport,  I  am  well  pleased.  She 
now  is  rich  but  honest,  and  her  honesty  is  her  riches;  but 
these  riches  will  not  save  her  from  particular  insults  like 
palpable  riches.  Property  begets  no  insults. 

IDIUA.—  You  are  keen,  cousin. 

HARRIET. — The  praise  of  kin  is  a  jewel.  Hark,  Idilia, 
I  have  signified  to  my  mother  I  shall  remain  the  single 
thing  I  am.  What  follows  is  clear  art.  I  am  doubly 
forfeit  to  letters,  not  doubt.  Were  there  less  note  in  the 
art  there  were  more  matter ;  but  as  it  is,  it  is.  I  have 
plucked  a  jewel  from  between  the  times  :  'tis  not  for  the 
world's  wearing  but  for  my  wearing  ;  to  another  it  may 
be  a  pebble,  to  me  it  is  a  precious  jewel.  Ah,  I  will  live 

315 


for  my  art  and  iny  art  will  make  me  whole.     Did  you 
leave  Venetia  asleep  ? 

IDIUA. — Reclining,  not  asleep.     She  has  a  pain  in  her 
temple. 

Enter  Mrs.  Kenyan,  John,  Drake,  and  Edmund. 
HARRIET. — I  must  play  a  part  here. 
MRS.  KENYON. — 

Ladies,  you  burn  your  youth  beneath  a  bushel ; 
Come,  you  must  entertain  these  gentlemen  : 
Anon  Venetia  will  attend.     In  the  morning 
We  lose  you,  therefore  we  are  gathered  here 
To  make  that  parting  easy. 
HARRIET.—  Welcome  all. 

Ah,  sir,  your  niece  avows  she  is  quite  well  ; 
Then  fear  not  for  her  health  ;  I'll  stand  for  it 
To  any  reasonable  point. 
JOHN. —  I'll  rest  in  that. 

I  owe  yourself,  your  mother,  and  this  lady, 
A  world  of  gratitude  that  you  welcomed  her 
Unto  your  home,  and  showed  her  sympathy 
In  time  of  heavy  loss. 
HARRIET.—  O  thank  us  not. 

Enter  Mrs.  Hartland,  Brewster,  and  Kenyan. 

BREWSTER. — 

Now  may  ill  health  retire,  and  ruddy  hearts 
Play  hostess  in  clear  eyes.     No  doubt,  dear  friends, 
I  find  you  well  ?  who  is  it  can  hide  sickness  ? 
Ha  !  where  's  my  little  visitor  ? 
Enter  Venetia. 


HARRIET. —  She  comes. 

BREWSTER. — 

No  more;  one  more  the  text  of  comfort  mars. 

Miss  Spencer,  you  look  quite  well. 
MRS.  KKNYON. —     And  so  she  is. 
VENETIA. — 

Sir,  I  am  well.     You  cannot  prove  I  'm  not — 

I  hid  the  temple  cloths  behind  my  glass. 

{Approaching  Harriet}  I  'd  speak  with  you. 

HARRIET. —  With  me,  Venetia? 

VENETIA. — 

' 'And  shall  it  be  the  less  with  human  largess 

That  touches  us  more  near  ? ' ' 
HARRIET. —  What  do  you  mean  ? 

VENETIA. — "  That  touches  us  more  near." 

[She  plucks  a  knife  from  her  dress  ;  stabs 
Harriet  and  runs  from  the  room. 

HARRIET. —  O  help  me,  father  !  [Falls. 

BREWSTER. — 

Quick,  seek  her  out;  she  has  lost  her  mind  again. 
This  way:  make  haste. 

DRAKE. —  This  way:  restrain  her:  swift. 

[Exeunt  Drake  and  John. 
KENYON. — 

O,  Harriet,  Harriet,  what  is  befallen  you? 
Art  hurt,  my  child  ?  speak  to  your  father,  speak. 
What  is  it  you  pluck  at?  let's  see,  let 's  see. 
O  wife,  she  bleeds  ! 

BREWSTER. —  Aside,  and  let  me  see. 

317 


MRS.  KENYON. — 

O  God,  she  bleeds  !  what  shall  I  do?  O  what  ? 

O  lift  her  up  and  bear  her  to  this  seat. 

My  child,  my  child,  what  is  the  matter?  speak, 

Speak  to  your  mother.     O  what,  what  has  she  done? 

O  speak. 
HARRIET.—  I  'm  hurt,  I  think. 

O  do  not  move  me,  father. 
BREWSTER.—  So,  so,  so. 

MRS.  KENYON.— 

0  me,  she  's  dying  here  before  my  eyes  ! 
You  are  not  men  who  will  not  lift  her  up, 
You  are  all  monsters.     O,  my  pretty  child, 
lyOok  up  and  speak  :  i'  the  morning,  Harriet, 
You  have  a  journey  to  go  ; — give  me  your  hand — 

1  will  go  with  you  :  I'll  never  leave  you  more; 
Never,  never  !     O  do  ;iot  look  like  that  ! 

My  God,  my  God,  if  thou  ere  didst  miracle, 

Save  me  my  child  ! 
HARRIET. —  O  do  not  move  me,  father. 

Yes,  I  am  hurt.     O,  I  am  dying  now  ! 

Don't  tell  Venetia;  say  I  died  of  a  fever, 

And  give  her  my  estate.     O  mourn  in  works. 

She  will  grow  well  and  then  fulfill  herself : 

I  thought  to  live  but  destiny  is  come. 

I'm  dying,  mother  :  'tis  very  likely,  now, 

I  prove  the  bachelor-maid  :  and  one  request, 

I^ay  me  apart.  [Dies. 

BREWSTER. —  She  's  dead  ;  so  easy  'tis  to  die. 

The  life  was  forfeit  to  the  total  pulse ; 

No  power  could  save  her,  being  struck  so  deep. 

318 


Madam,  look  to  the  mother  ;  Edmund,  lend  hand. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Hart  land  and  Edmund, 
leading  Mrs.  Kenyan. 

I  am  physician  to  the  living  and 

While  there  is  madness  there  is  life. 
IDIUA. —  O,  Harriet, 

I  will  not  think  you  dead  ;  you  are  so  near, 

And  breath  is  all  around.     L,ook  up  and  speak. 

And  shall  I  never  hear  her  voice  again  ? 

I  will  weep. 
KENYON.—  Hush,  pretty  daughter,  hush. 

My  grief  lies  deepest :  be  you  less  than  me. 

I^ook,  I  am  firm  ;  I  have  not  shed  a  tear. 

Come  to  my  arms  and  be  my  living  child 

Lest  my  heart  crack. 
BREWSTER.—  Farewell,  sweet  lady: 

May  brighter  airs  still  clip  your  path  about. 

Re-enter  John. 

JOHN. — I  suspect  all. 

I  passed  the  mother  swooned  upon  the  stairs, 

And  Edmund  nodded  at  my  horror,  I 

At  Edmund's  horror.    We  came  to  her  and  spoke, — 

Spoke  gently,  sirs, — then,  putting  up  her  hand 

Unto  her  temple,  my  ever-gentle  niece 

Sank  low  as  this.     {Pointing  at  Harriet.') 
O  God,  I  have  no  home  ! 

And  life  is  ended  when  the  home  has  end. 
BREWSTER. — 

'Tis  so,  'tis  so,  'tis  so. 

's  bring  the  body  to  an  inner  room. 

319 


KENYON. — 

My  loss  lights  on  no  one; — God  shield  me  there — 
My  hospitality  goes  with  this  along. 
O  help  nie,  friends !     I  hold  yet  in  some  life, 
But  life  's  not  peace,  and  inward  stands  a  strife 
Unto  my  end.     Hush,  bring  her  to  her  rest. 

[Exeunt,  bearing  off  Harriet. 


320 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


